


Feathers and Starlight

by rawrkinjd



Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Found Family, M/M, Minor Character Death, Papa Vesemir, Polyamory, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Lambert (The Witcher), The Witcher 3 Spoilers, The Witcher Lore, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: “Five months, Lambert. How - ?” Eskel rubbed a hand over the right side of his face. He still wasn’t quite over what he was seeing. Lambert.TheLambert. A man that cursed Gardis’ very name for claiming him as a child surprise; resented his life on the Path; resented everything about being a Witcher, including the lack of choice and free will. Hadseenthe devastation wrought on two of his brothers for doing the very same.Thatman had claimed the Law of Surprise in lieu of payment, thus condemning another living being to destiny’s clutches. It didn’t ring true.“I have the shittest luck,” Lambert looked back down at Cal, who beamed right back up at him. “And I was drunk.”Or: Lambert invokes the Law of Surprise after a bender and lands more than he bargained for.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648
Comments: 1245
Kudos: 919





	1. Bird in a Cage

* * *

“He’s Aen Seidhe,” Vesemir murmured. “But not completely.”

“Nope. Only half.” Lambert confirmed, his chin propped in the heel of his hand. Eskel had convinced him to shed his wet clothes in favour of a dry shirt and trousers; he left briefly to tend to the horse waiting in the stable; he returned now and took up a seat between Jaskier and Geralt. The former was staring between the baby and Lambert in open-mouthed adoration, cornflower eyes bright, while the latter was waiting with a small, sardonic smile for the explanation.

“So,” Jaskier tilted his head, “what _is_ he?”

“I have no fuckin’ idea.”

Five of them - four Witchers, one bard - sat at their dining table, food forgotten, and gazed at the small child currently babbling away amongst the empty plates and cutlery. He was encircled in a buffer of folded arms to prevent escape, but seemed content to drum on the table between his feet, occasionally giggling. Luminescent blue eyes inspected each new face curiously, pointed elven ears erupted through an untidy mop of light blonde, almost white, hair. The warm fire nearby had added a flush of pink to his otherwise pale skin, and, as he looked back at Lambert, those small, chubby hands lifted from the table, fingers wiggling, accompanied by a stream of baby babble.

Lambert stared forlornly, unaware of the others gazing at him in bewilderment, and then offered Caladrius his hand. The boy took Lambert’s index finger and immediately tried to put it in his mouth, only to have his captive digit pulled from him with a low growl of warning, “Cal, no. Bad.” With three days’ grime caked in his fingernails, Lambert might as well let him eat mud in the courtyard. To be fair, he wouldn’t be the _first_ child ever to have done so. His denial met with a quivering lip and the sparkle of crocodile tears, he scooped Cal from the table with another low rumble and dumped him in his lap. Pudgy fingers seized his medallion, which was at least _vaguely_ clean, and shoved it straight into his mouth. Young teeth clacked across the burnished metal and Lambert tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, imploring some greater power to have some fucking mercy.

“Five months, Lambert. How - ?” Eskel rubbed a hand over the right side of his face. He still wasn’t quite _over_ what he was seeing. _Lambert._ _The_ Lambert. A man that cursed Gardis’ very name for claiming him as a child surprise; resented his life on the Path; resented _everything_ about being a Witcher, including the lack of choice and free will. _Had seen the devastation wrought on two of his brothers for doing the very same._ _That_ man had claimed the Law of Surprise instead of payment, thus condemning another living being to destiny’s clutches. It didn’t ring true.

“I have the shittest luck,” Lambert looked back down at Cal, who beamed right back up at him. “And I was drunk.”

Vesemir rolled his eyes. “Of course you were. How many times have I told you - ?”

“Don’t fucking lecture me, old man.” A feral bark and Cal mewled in protest, that lower lip stuttering again. “Ah - shit, no, don’t do that. I’m sorry, don’t cry.” Having spent several weeks travelling together, Lambert had worked out he could calm the infant by stroking his hair and holding him close to his chest. He figured it must be his heartbeat or something. _Fuck if he knew._ It worked. He looked up and realised the others were staring at him. _Again._ “What?”

Jaskier was the first to speak. “I - it’s just - so very -,” he clenched his teeth against the adjective, but it spilt over anyway, “adorable. Stupidly, horrendously adorable. The way he just looks at you, and - .”

If it had been _anyone_ but Buttercup, Lambert would have flipped the table. His brow set and glared first at Eskel, then at Geralt, _daring_ them to add anything. Thankfully they were still too dumbfounded to deploy the new material. Geralt finally broke the silence, “Explain. This is quite the hole to dig in five months.”

Vesemir nodded in agreement. “Even for you.”

“Firstly, fuck you all. Secondly, Geralt, _you_ lecturing me about digging and-or ploughing holes is fucking rich,” Lambert said tartly, “Finally, once I’ve explained, you’ll realise that _none_ of this is my fault.”

***

_Shortly after leaving Posada…_

The battle at Vergen had left miles and miles of corpse-ridden battlefields. Corpses meant necrophages. Necrophages meant work. _Shit_ work. The kind of work that left the unlucky Witcher that accepted the contract drenched in foul-smelling blood and entrails that took several baths to remove. But it was _work._ So Lambert accepted every contract in every village that he came across until he could afford the horse he had given up in favour of wooing his Buttercup at the beginning of summer. It took several weeks and two gnarly injuries, but the moment he tightened the leather straps of the saddle around his new bay gelding, he knew it was worth it. Walking everywhere, carrying your shit, was hard work. 

Having grown bored of Vergen, Lambert headed west towards Tretegor. Straying into Geralt and/or Eskel territory, but it didn’t matter. He knew Eskel would head towards Oxenfurt to take Buttercup home - they’d discussed it quietly over several pints of mead, and Lambert had expressed his concern that Buttercup was _struggling_ with shit, and probably needed some time off - and Geralt was probably… _somewhere._ Who the fuck knew? Geralt was a law unto himself.

He also wasn’t the only Witcher to talk to his horses.

“Every fucking rule we have, he breaks,” Lambert informed his horse. “And then he lectures _me._ Fucking prick.” A pause. “He has a nice prick, though. It’s - I can understand why - .” He shifted in his saddle. Not a comfortable position to be conjuring memories of Geralt’s dick in. “I mean, Eskel’s clearly half-dragon, but - you know. This is a fucking weird conversation to be having with a horse. They took your dick, didn’t they? Well, your bollocks anyway. Sorry, mate. It’s how you use it; don’t even worry.” 

Lambert changed direction and wandered his way further into Temeria. He found himself staring at the walls of Vizima with his teeth on edge. Hadn’t been _here_ since - _urgh,_ yeah. He needed to get over this bullshit. Heels tapped gently against his horse’s flanks - needed to think of a name at some point - and he rode unmolested through the city gates; the guards apparently unconcerned by the presence of yet another hooded traveller. Evening crept ever closer, but the streets of Vizima were still bustling and cramped; Lambert hopped down from his horse’s back to better guide him through the crowds to the public stable. He handed over a palm-full of coins with the usual threat: _I’ll inflict any mark I find on him when I return on you._

There were precious few notice boards scattered near intersections, mostly cluttered with missing person posters, government propaganda and fighting tournaments. The latter held his attention for a good few minutes as he _considered_ it. _Not that desperate yet._ With the night drawing in, he headed towards _The Fox._ It was the less favoured - and therefore cheaper - of the two establishments in the city, and Lambert was assured of a seat in a dark corner. Even though his time in Posada was barely a month or two behind him, he felt the cold tendrils of loneliness clenching around his heart already. Never used to be this bad. He could go _months_ without seeing a single person and be happy. It was Buttercup. Just those few weeks of travelling alongside his beautiful, captivating bard had rendered him soft. Like Geralt. And Eskel. _Well._ There was only _one_ way to burn away the icy clutch of loneliness. _Alcohol._ And lots of it. Preferably with a handsome dose of White Gull to give it some bite, _then_ you could find a willing whore to rail for the evening. _Maybe._ Wasn’t the same, though.

As he walked down an empty street, a flash of gold and white high above the line of the roofs caught his attention. Amber eyes lifted the ivy-wound trellis clinging to the edge of the stout tower and settled finally on one of the highest windows. A white bird fluttered away inside a gilded cage. He’d never seen an animal like it. Like a large dove, but with a longer neck and huge, flowing tail feathers edged in gold. It was _crying—a_ quiet, almost imperceptible, whimper beneath the usual bubbling coo of the avian variety. Birds didn’t _cry._ The Witcher squinted into the sky a little longer and was almost _certain_ it was staring at him in turn. “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?” He murmured and could have _sworn_ the bird lowered its head in acceptance. Lambert moved on.

As expected, _The Fox_ was relatively empty, and for a meagre amount of money, Lambert secured himself some bread and watered down ale. After a bit of asking around, he found himself, someone, to play Gwent with and watered down ale suddenly morphed into stiff vodka topped up with White Gull. As with most of Lambert’s visits into civilisation, drunken revelry devolved rapidly into a brawl when his opponent mistook his skill for subterfuge. 

“Yer cheatin’, Witcha’. No way yer coulda’ beaten that play.” The human drawled, spittle erupting from too thick lips to cover Lambert’s deck.

Unimpressed, Lambert scowled. “Can’t handle getting beat, don’t take on a master. You’re clearly too thick for Gwent anyway. I’ll take my winnings and fuck off.” He swept his cards into his palm and raised a brow when his opposition slammed two fists into the table. Alcohol made humans stupid. _Really stupid._ “Choose life, my friend.” The threat was subtle. Lambert didn’t need to growl or posture, even drunk he was definitely capable of smashing this one through a wall. _Oh look, he has friends now._ The room swayed unhelpfully as Lambert staggered to his feet.

“Don’ take kindly to threats, freak.” 

“Freak?” Lambert’s mouth opened in mock outrage, splayed fingers pressing to his chest, but it quickly devolved into a low growl. Oh, just because he didn’t _need_ to growl, didn’t make it _unusual._ “Say it again, and I’ll take your teeth for a necklace.” Two curled fists pressed into the table as he leaned over. His friendly companion turned irritating cretin moved closer too so that he could spit the word into Lambert’s face.

“Get outta’ town. _Freak._ ” 

Lambert opened with a headbutt that sent his first opponent careening backwards into the table behind him, and then turned to face the next few blows with counters that would’ve made Vesemir huff in disgust. _Well, he wasn’t fucking here, was he?_ They landed a few lucky punches to his face - split lip, black eye, _might have lost a fucking molar even, what the fuck_ \- and a chair broke across his back and brought him to his knees. A swipe of his leg removed those from beneath his assailant, followed by an elbow to the temple that knocked him unconscious. It would’ve been far more systematic if the fucking _room_ hadn’t been moving all over the place, but Witchers couldn’t be choosers - _or was it, beggars?_ Haha. _Both._ Lambert snickered to himself and took another fist to the gut.

“Witcher!” The innkeeper bellowed from behind the bar. “Get out, or I’ll call the town guard.” A satisfying amount of furniture lay in splintered pieces, with six groaning bodies rolling around in between. Lambert swiped a pouch of coins from one of the few remaining tables and raised a half-drunk bottle of vodka to his temple in salute as he stumbled out into the street. _Ahh yeah,_ he forgot the _third_ ingredient to cure loneliness. Beating up assholes. “Haha. Or gettin’ your asshole beat. By Eskel.” He slurred into the darkness. _Oh no, now he was thinking about Eskel._ He groaned in quiet pain and pressed his forehead to the cold stone of a nearby building. When had the Path become this _hard?_ It had always been _shit,_ but now it was… _worse._

Lambert staggered down a few more streets, sipping at the bottle in his hands and topping it up with White Gull when the burn lessened too much. After a bit of aimless wandering, he found himself standing at the foot of that tower again, looking up at the same damned bird. It cooed. I cried _._ This time it bit down to his very soul because his drunken mind projected his own feelings right on up there. “Yeah, I’m lonely too,” he murmured, “‘Cept I can at least go find someone t’ take the edge off.” Bottle of vodka placed on a nearby fence post, Lambert stepped up and pressed his palms against the trellis frame. “Bet you never see outside that cage, do ya’?” It bubbled in response, and Lambert could _feel_ the misery emanating from it. He was certain. “Fuck it.” And suddenly, he was climbing. The trellis was old - _creaking -_ but it held his weight. His coordination was shot, and luck played a huge part in his relatively swift ascent. Where possible, he jammed his feet into stony nooks in the building itself, until eventually, his head appeared above the windowsill. The room inside was pitch black. Not even a candle. But his medallion hummed and he could smell the acidic chemicals and bitter herbs of an alchemist. _Mage?_ Well, fuck, then he was definitely freeing this bird. 

_Fuck sorcerers._

Now that he was at eye level, Lambert could study the bird more closely. It had piercing blue eyes - unusual - and golden eye tufts that stretched back along with its head. One or two of its tail feathers shimmered pure gold, while the rest were mainly white, with golden edging. Pretty. Some of those pure feathers were broken though, and Lambert could see several injuries along its chest and legs. Its captor had _abused_ it. _Of course._ Sorcerers and mages didn’t know how to do anything else, did they? Power above all. Lambert hooked one arm through the trellis and melted the small lock on the cage with a well-controlled Igni. _Eskel would be impressed._ The cage door swung open with a quiet whine, and the bird burst forth with an ecstatic cry. Unfortunately, Witcher reflexes _dulled_ by his Gull-enhanced binge, Lambert was thrown off the side of the wall and ended up sprawled on the cobblestones below. Winded, he groaned and rolled over onto his front. “ _Fuck…”_ He wheezed as he staggered to his feet.

Perched on a nearby rooftop, the bird chirped and cooed down at him. “You’re welcome,” he waved his fist, and then pressed the palm into the small of his back as he bent over. _Ouch. Spine_. “Rescued from the worst monster on the Continent. You know, Witchers don’t come cheap. You owe me.” Bottle retrieved from its perch, Lambert took a long draw to numb the pain in his back. When he looked to the roof again, the bird was still sitting there, long tail feathers fluttering in the breeze, head cocked to the side. “Oh, _oh._ You’re… waiting.” His brow set. He was talking to a fucking bird. Really _was_ turning into a fairytale princess. “You know what. My price is what you find at home yet do not expect. _There._ So. Fuck off.” He fluttered his hand, and his feathery damsel immediately took flight. Its wingspan was impressive, and Lambert blinked as his medallion hummed. _Fuck._ He watched it until it was a white speck against the midnight sky, and then continued his staggered journey towards the stables. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d shared a stall with a horse, and wouldn’t be the fucking last.

***

“Wait,” Eskel held up his hand. “So, you got drunk, and then you rescued a bird from what you assumed to be a sorcerer’s… what, workshop?”

“Yeah.” Lambert glanced down at the babe in his arms. Eyelids drooping, Caladrius yawned and buried his face away in Lambert’s shirt. _Shit._ Where was he going to sleep? Hadn’t even thought about that. “The asshole was clearly torturing it, or keeping it prisoner, or whatever.”

“You might have just released their pet,” Geralt grumbled, chin resting against the heel of his hand. “And you thought the law of surprise was, what? A joke?”

“Following your example, Geralt.” Lambert bit back and then huffed a sigh. “It was a fucking bird… I was drunk. Just fell on my ass. I thought maybe I’d have a nice omelette in my future somewhere. Or a roast bird.”

“So, how do you go from rescuing a bird to bringing a baby back to Kaer Morhen?” Eskel, with his painful experiences of child surprises, was still eyeing Caladrius’ sleeping form with trepidation.

“Just… _wait,_ I’m getting there. Fuckin’ hell.” Lambert rubbed his eyes, tired. “So, a month or so goes by…”

***

_Several weeks before returning home…_

Lambert dragged the grey rag down the length of the silver blade in his hand and eyed the arachas critically. There were a few bits and pieces he could use for his own supplies, and a few more he could sell on to an alchemist for extra profit. Harvesting an arachas was dirty work though. Sword replaced with his trophy knife, he knelt in the blood-soaked mud and began to pry his way through its shell. _Eyes, a vial of venom, one of its legs…_

As he was finishing up, a quiet coo drew his attention into the trees. Sitting not far on a low branch, a dove eyed him with interest, head tilted to the side. Lambert glanced over his shoulder but saw no one else. The bird chirped again. Louder. “What the - ?” He spotted the small roll of parchment bound to its leg, and as he drew closer, his medallion hummed. Drawing to an immediate stop, Lambert’s hand leapt to his chest. It wasn’t a raven or a crow. Not a message from a sorcerer then. _Who_ \- or rather _what_ \- _the fuck used doves?_

The bird didn’t fly away as he stepped right up to it. He yanked one of his gloves off with his teeth - immediately regretting it as acrid arachas blood touched his tongue - before nimble fingers undid the silvery twine around the dove’s leg. He unrolled the message tentatively. 

* * *

_For Lambert, Witcher -_

_You must attend Est Haemlet to claim your child surprise as dictated by the Law of Surprise._

_Make haste._

_Yours Dhalion._

* * *

_What._

_The._

_Fuck?_

Lambert froze rigid. 

This had to be a mistake. _Definitely a mistake._ He looked back at the tree branch, but it was already gone. Reread the note, but it still said the _same fucking thing._

_No. No. No._

One of the others was messing with him. But how would they train a fucking dove to do their bidding? A dove with magical properties. _Shit, he should’ve captured it -_ no, this was a joke. Had to be. Lambert snatched the few harvested items from the arachas and found his horse in a nearby thicket. He rode back to Houlborg in a daze, forgetting to count the money he was handed by his contractor. _When?_ When had he claimed the law of surprise? 

He sat in a public house and agonised for a day. Read the note another fifty times. A hundred times. The message didn’t change. So he drowned in a bit more alcohol. The message _still read the same in the morning._

At first, he decided to ignore it. He rode into Kaedwen with the express purpose of heading to Kaer Morhen. Winter was closing in, and he needed to get back before the first snows. Definitely _was not_ fleeing home with his tail between his legs. As he rode through Vergen, he knew he was going to turn north away from the Pontar and - 

Lambert gazed east towards Ban Glaen and _remembered_. _The bird._ A white bird. 

He stared down at the saddle pommel in front of him and dropped the reins to scrub his hands over his face. A white bird that had made his medallion hum with its power. It hadn’t been the _sorcerer_ at all. It had been the fucking _bird._ “FUCK!” He bellowed into the wilderness, and his horse stamped the ground, unsettled.

_No. He could still ignore it. What could a bird do? What could a -?_

Lambert thought about Geralt and Ciri; the burning of Cintra, the relentless march of bad luck that dogged Geralt’s every step until he’d obeyed the demands of fate. He thought about Eskel and Deidre; the howling banshee that had mutilated Eskel’s face because he’d tried to hide from his responsibility. Eskel blamed himself for her fate to this very day. If Lambert ran from this, then he wasn't just damning himself. The child could - _would, because destiny was a petty bitch -_ suffer as well. And if there were _one thing_ Lambert could not abide - amongst a laundry list of other things, many would argue - it was a child suffering. With an irate snarl, Lambert steered his gelding east and spurred it into a canter down the banks of the Pontar towards Est Haemlet. 

It took several days.

When he arrived, the elves watched him with distrust. Since Milan Raupenneck’s massacre, they were rightfully suspicious of outsiders. After careful negotiation, Lambert was finally directed to a house at the very edge of the village. Dilapidated and rundown, it reflected the sorry state of every non-human settlement between here and the Great Sea; forgotten, uncared for. Like their inhabitants. He knocked and then nudged the door open. Locks were a luxury for the wealthy. The interior was dark, and the fetid smell of sickness immediately swamped Lambert’s senses. A rustling to his left drew his attention.

“Witcher?” A reedy voice. Female. “Dhalion said you would come.”

Lambert swept aside the tattered rag that obscured the doorway and found a small, half-starved woman. Her colour was as grey and washed out as the armchair she was huddled in. Her beauty radiated even through the sickly sheen of sweat on her pale skin; delicate elven features framed in platinum blonde hair, with bright blue eyes. “Look, I - there’s been some mistake - .”

“No mistake,” she whispered and untucked the bundle in her lap. A pair of luminescent, azure oculars blinked at him inquisitively. “This is Caladrius. Your child surprise.”

“I freed a _bird._ Not an Aen Seidhe.” Yet he could _feel_ it; a magnetism that drew him further into the room, that _kept_ his eyes focused on the delicate features of the child seated calmly in his mother’s arms. “It wasn’t - I never intended - .”

“You freed Dhalion,” she smiled, weakly. The smell of sickness was starting to fade to something else; bitter, and burnt. _Death._ “He wanted to be here, but with the civil war, he has lots of work.”

“What - ?”

“Take Caladrius away from here, Witcher. Take him away from this sickness, and this poverty. Give him a better life than I can.”

“A _better_ life?” Lambert tried to keep his tone level, but he couldn’t help the incredulous bitterness that simmered at its base. _Better_ was not the word he’d use. _Cursed,_ maybe. But then he looked around the room. There was _nothing._ Every item of furniture was broken or worn. The linens on the bed were tattered and greying. 

“Please. I don’t have long,” her voice was growing weaker. Whatever ailed her was in its final stages. “Let my -” she drew a stuttering breath, “- let my last moments pass in the knowledge that my child is safe.”

_Safe?_

Lambert clenched his teeth and looked away. _Safe with a Witcher._ An eternity of silence passed between them until slowly, tentatively, Lambert stepped forward and took the child from his mother’s arms. Caladrius didn’t cry. He didn’t make a single sound. Only blinked and examined Lambert with those big, blue eyes full of wonder. “Is he - does he eat solid food?” Lambert’s voice cracked.

“Yes. He is weaned from my breast. I had to -,” her eyes slipped closed, her head tilting to the wing of the headrest, “ - I could not produce enough anymore.” 

“I’ll -,” Lambert could feel his chest tightening as he watched her fade. “I’ll do my best. I’ll keep him safe. I promise.”

She smiled. “I know a good heart when I see one.”

_And then she was gone._

Lambert left the rundown shack and alerted the first person he came across to her passing. The elf only nodded gravely and turned back in the direction he’d come. With Caladrius tucked into the crook of his arm, Lambert threw himself up into the saddle of his horse and turned its nose north. He didn’t look back as he left the village and the Pontar in his wake; there was only _one_ thing on his mind. _Get home. Get help._

The first evening of camping proved to be… interesting. The child didn’t _cry_ , but he started to _talk—an_ incessant stream of gurgling and squeaks that attracted unwanted attention from predators in the darkness. Luckily, the unnatural smell of a Witcher proved enough of a deterrent for the majority, with only a few wolves forced back with a flare of Igni. _Not worth the trouble._

With the fire crackling away, Lambert unrolled his sleeping mat and wrapped Caladrius in his cloak for extra warmth. The child settled quickly, occasionally snuffling in his sleep, but Lambert _didn’t._ His eyes _burned_ with exhaustion, but rest remained unattainable. Even meditation was impossible. As he lay staring at the midnight sky, Lambert heard a sound. A cry of anguish carried over the wind. Distant, ethereal. It was a sound he’d heard before; quieter, locked behind the gilded bars of a cage. 

He looked at the child nestled against his side and saw tears trickle down from closed eyes.

***

“Hm,” Geralt sat back and folded his arms. “So the mother was Aen Seidhe. And dying.”

“Yeah. She must’ve been clinging on for -.” Lambert growled. “This is such bullshit.”

“Bullshit of your own making,” Vesemir pointed out, unhelpfully. “I have a hunch. Gonna’ sleep on it, then does some research in the mornin’. He’ll have to sleep in your bunk for now, and then we’ll think about somethin’ a bit more permanent.” The old wolf inspected the babe closely as he gathered the empty plates. They’d started grazing as Lambert talked and now the majority of the food was gone. With cutlery and trays piled, Vesemir headed away, looking pensive.

“Lambert, it’s - .” Eskel began.

“Don’t give me a fucking speech,” Lambert warned, hackles rising.

“No speech,” Eskel slid along the bench a little closer, hand tentatively resting on Lambert’s back. It was tense, expecting a fight that wasn’t coming. “We’re here. You -,” he gestured at the small bundle, “- did the right thing. Collecting him. We didn’t, and I get to wear my mistake forever.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve already got scars, figured destiny would take my dick or somethin’, so - .” He fluttered a hand at Eskel to try and ward off the comfort with crass bravado, but the rest of him was leaning in, and Eskel took that as permission to wrap his shoulders. If the baby weren’t in his lap, Lambert would have dissolved with abandon. Eskel’s scent was a salve for the anxiety tightening in his chest, and his hair rasped through the stumble underneath Eskel’s chin as he pushed up into it. With Buttercup nearby, and the heavy golden eyes of Geralt soft in the firelight, Lambert finally relaxed. _Home._

Jaskier smiled gently. “As with everything, dear heart. We’ll survive this together. Whatever _this_ \- or rather, _he_ \- happens to be.”


	2. Head Above Water

Kaer Morhen was cold. Lambert had forgotten about that. After a while, the constant niggle of discomfort faded into the background. The first few years after the Pogrom were difficult. The transition from a castle full of people to one void of life had been harrowing; he'd barely slept those first few dark winters. The castle was noisy too; it howled, and it creaked, and it groaned. The relentless winds of Morhen Valley give a million spectres voice. This was a fucking _terrifying_ place for a child. How had he let that slip his mind?

As he lay Caladrius down in the centre of his bunk, Lambert found himself trying to explain the horrors of his home away. Their home. Because this is what he’d condemned Caladrius to. They were in this together now. “S’all good, kid. Just the castle. No ghosts, I promise,” he moved some blankets into a loose horseshoe to prevent the boy from rolling out of bed, “we cleared the few wraiths out years ago. Wraiths happen when a person’s death is bad. There were quite a few - uh, I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

Huge blue eyes watched him, frightened, and he pulled another blanket over for good measure. Eskel appeared in the doorway. “Got everything you need?”

“Yeah, I - uh, we’re all good.” Lambert glanced over his shoulder at the pile of logs by the fireplace to check them for the fifth time. _Plenty._

“You know, you can still come and sleep in with us, or I could come and sleep in here. We - .”

“No,” Lambert said quickly. “He cries sometimes and wakes up for a few hours in the middle of the night. Winter’s meant to be resting time, so this is on me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Eskel sighed. “Right. Just ask if you need anything. You know we’re opposite.” He wasn’t happy about it, but Lambert was still figuring everything out; it was best to give him space until he had. Reluctantly, Eskel headed back to his room and the waiting arms of Geralt and Jaskier, closing the door quietly behind him. 

“Alright. Yeah, right, mhm. This is the easy part, we’re home now,” Lambert looked towards the rafters as a vicious gust rattled the beams, and Cal whimpered. “It’s fine. I’ll be right here. Just here. Like when we were on the Path.” And just like on the Path, he wouldn’t sleep. At least in the sanctity of Kaer Morhen, he could meditate, right? 

_Right._

Kneeling at the end of the bed, Lambert rested his palms flat on his thighs and closed his eyes. Deep breaths. Empty the mind. _No - no - not sleep, for fuck’s sake._ Try again. Empty the mind. Focus on a single point. Breathe in, breathe out. Heartbeat slowing… _and…_

“Brbbrr-bbrbb,” said Cal.

Lambert’s eye popped open, and he leaned forward on his hands to inspect the blankets. Everything fine. Still in place. No vomit, no shit, no mucus of any kind. Hadn’t managed to find some random fucking rock to shove in his mouth and choke on - _happened_ _every five seconds on their journey here -_ _right._ And again. The Witcher shook his shoulders and sat back on his heels for the second time. Drawing a deep breath through his nose, he once more teetered on the brink of actual sleep before pulling it back. _Breathe in, breathe out - why is the wind so fucking loud - in, out - is he warm enough? Three blankets should be alright_ \- **_in, out -_** _did_ _I remember to put another linen on his -?_

Cal whimpered as a mighty howl whipped down the corridor outside. Lambert’s eyes opened again, and his chin dropped to his chest with a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, this is some kinda’ -,” he tilted his head back to glare at the ceiling and the heavens beyond, “if someone is listening - anyone - _fuck you_.” Another quiet mewl from the bundle of blankets drew his attention back. There was that lower lip quivering again. He didn’t trust himself actually to sleep near the kid - nightmares, accidentally rolling on him, all that shit was a possibility - and clearly, an hour or two of meditation was too much to fucking ask, so -

Lambert scooped Cal from the bed and held him close. The babe calmed immediately, face turning into Lambert’s shirt, bright blue eyes closing. For the rest of the night, the Witcher paced around his room; every time he sat down, his eyes grew heavy, so in the end, he just stayed on his feet. Clutched tightly to Lambert’s chest, Caladrius slept soundly, only shifting occasionally with a light snuffle. _Fine. This was… doable, right?_ Witchers could go for months without proper sleep. He’d done it. Perfectly legitimate course of action. Only two weeks since picking Cal up, and he was feeling _great._

Lambert stood before his window and watched the sunrise. He’d never felt so out of his depth. _But this was his mess, and he was going to fucking well deal with it._

***

A sixth addition to the pack didn’t alter the expectations of routine. After a day to recuperate from their trek up the Trail, chores and training began. The morning meant sword drills and footwork. Jaskier took Cal, bundled tightly in several blankets, and sat with him by the kitchen fire. Lambert adjusted his sword belt as he issued his instructions, “Make sure you hold his head. If he gurgles high-pitched, that’s a good sound. If he whines, then that means he’s either scared or going for a shit, the spare linens are in my room - and - .”

“Lambert,” Jaskier rested a hand on the Witcher’s forearm. “It’s a couple of hours. We’ll be fine. If I need to change him - well, I’ll just work it out.”

“It smells bad,” Lambert said, gravely. “Think selkie maw guts, then add in a bit of necrophage bile. I think he eats literal crap when I’m not looking. I swear I try to feed him green stuff too, but it just - it looks like the inside of a rot fiend’s head. It’s so bad.” He said all of this with a serious expression and Jaskier sat patiently waiting for the smirk, but it didn’t come. Lambert looked genuinely concerned as he studied the child swaddled in an old cloak of his as if trying to figure out how it could biologically _be_ as horrific as it was. “Just come and get me.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to argue, but it clicked shut when he caught that glimmer of something quite _desolate_ in Lambert’s eye. Instead, he nodded mutely and watched the Witcher trudge out into the courtyard, his shoulders hunched and his head down. The bard hummed, “Well, young Caladrius, let’s get acquainted,” he shifted the child into his right arm. “I’m Jaskier. The moniker of uncle may be acceptable, although given how very much in love I am with your father that could give you the wrong idea about uncles and aunts. Perhaps Jaskier, then.” 

“Brbrbbr-gurr-brr.” Cal bubbled in agreement, wriggling in the confines of his blanket until his arms were free. Little fingers wound their way around the buttons and ties on Jaskier’s doublet, tugging and feeling in wonder. The material was soft; a vibrant lilac, with olive green accents for contrast. The bloom of colour entranced young eyes, and Cal seemed content with this new marvel for the moment.

“Yes. Quite,” Jaskier grinned. “I see you have good taste. This bodes well. Perhaps I can convince Pa to come to Oxenfurt for spring. I can have my tailor measure you up for some new clothes. You would look quite lovely, with all this pretty blonde hair.”

Half an hour passed and Jaskier fed the child some porridge lightly seasoned with cinnamon. It went down well, followed by a couple of impressive belches - “Hmm, like father like son, clearly” - and some light sips of water. However, the novelty of Jaskier’s company didn’t last long, and Cal began to sniffle and shift restlessly. Bright eyes became shaded in concern, and the first few whines of distress escaped little cherub lips. “Ahh, well, shall we go and see what your Pa’s up to?” Perhaps Lambert’s proximity would help.

With another layer wrapped around them both, Jaskier headed out into the chilly morning air and stood at the edge of the courtyard. He was just in time to watch Geralt disarm Lambert; a swift counter followed by a brutal backhand across the face. Momentarily dazed, Lambert staggered, and the White Wolf grunted. “That was sloppy.”

“Yeah, well -,” Lambert began, but the stars were still clearing from his vision, and his brain failed to conjure a witty riposte. _Disappointing._ “Fuck you.” He snatched his sword from the ground and twirled it over the back of his hand, but as he circled to start again, he saw Jaskier at the top of the stairs and immediately rushed to his side. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“N - nothing, Lambert. It’s alright. He was just getting a bit upset without you nearby.” Jaskier unfurled his cloak as Lambert sheathed the steel sword in his hand and reached out. “See? All fine.” The Witcher still took Cal back, studying him closely. The child beamed and chattered. Jaskier smiled. “To translate: I had some lovely porridge, and Jaskier has taken excellent care of me.”

“Right, yeah, thanks, I hadn’t even thought of breakfast,” Lambert’s brow creased. “I guess they need to eat as soon as they wake up, right? Normally. I mean, I was only feeding him when I could get food on the journey here. Does he look too thin to you? I think he needs changing...” And with that, Lambert wandered back into the keep. 

Jaskier sighed and walked down the stone steps into the courtyard. “I’m assuming that wasn’t the first slap you’ve given him this session?”

“No,” Geralt huffed. “It’s like he’s in a daze. Happens when a Witcher doesn’t sleep or eat. Everything begins to slow down to compensate.”

“He’s been eatin’ just about,” Vesemir murmured. “That leaves sleepin’.”

Eskel growled. “He knows we’re here, why won’t he let us help? He seemed so relieved to be home the first night.” Granted, Eskel didn’t have the first idea about looking after a child _that_ young, but he was willing to learn. If shirts covered in vomit and a few sleepless nights were the price of having Lambert in his arms, well-rested and happy, then he’d pay it a thousand times over.

Jaskier tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Give him a bit more time to work through it himself, and then we’ll intervene. Cal’s in no danger. He’s healthy and happy.” _Lambert, on the other hand…_ There was a general murmur of agreement, and Eskel pushed himself up from his perch on a crate to face Geralt, blade in hand. 

***

The logistics of caring for an infant hadn’t really occurred to Lambert in his haste to reach Kaer Morhen. There were so many things he should’ve considered before leaving behind the last vestiges of civilisation. Babies needed more than one set of clothes, for example. Who knew? Likewise, they didn’t have a cot, or - anything. How did you keep a baby clean? They vomited and shat like it was their single purpose in life, and mucus seemed to leak out of every orifice. _Constantly._ How did they _contain_ so much _fluid?_ He had been using scraps of his old shirts as linens and had to rip more up daily as old ones were discarded as lost causes. _He had no fucking idea what he was doing._

And _fuck,_ he was so _tired._ The last time Lambert had felt exhaustion like this had been after his first year on the Path. While the others were beginning to look bright and rested, he glimpsed himself in the mirror one morning and realised he looked like the walking dead. Just a couple more nights and Cal would settle. It'd all be perfectly fine. He was handling everything.

On the fourth day of Lambert using a damp cloth to clean off the worst of previously identified excretions, Vesemir finally drew the line. Their combined stench began to offend even Jaskier’s insensitive nose. In the late afternoon, the old wolf stepped in front of Lambert as he walked with his gurgling bundle towards the kitchen. “You smell worse than an endrega infestation. Go wash, or you won’t be eatin’.” It was a bluff, but it worked.

The resulting _mood_ carried Lambert all the way down to the springs in a huff before that little issue of _logistics_ occurred to him again. Child tucked against his chest; he spread a towel out on the flagstones. “Just going to put you here. Don’t move,” he lowered his precious cargo onto the floor and received a giggle in response. “Stay. Here.” One finger extended in command, Lambert paused to make sure Cal knew he was _serious_ and then turned to begin stripping off his shirt. Just as he reached down for his belt, he heard a quiet splash and a high-pitched, bubbling laugh. _Fuck._ With all the speed and dexterity earned from years as a highly trained Witcher - _yeah, right_ \- Lambert scrambled towards the edge of the nearest spring in horror. He scooped a hand around Cal’s middle and pushed him back from certain death as his own momentum carried him into the pool.

Erupting to the surface with a growl, Lambert shook the water from his face like a dog, the only dry part of him the hand secured around the pudgy stomach of the child currently giggling at him from the spring wall. “I told you to fucking stay.” He snarled, and then instantly regretted it when those soulful eyes filled with tears. The fingers of his free hand pressed into his own, and he took a deep, steadying breath before he looked back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - I - don’t cry.” He spoke softly and swallowed down his misery because his voice had sounded painfully familiar in its fury. A voice that had caused a young boy a lot of pain many decades ago. In one harrowing instant, Lambert realised just _why_ this whole thing horrified him so much. He was fifty per cent his father’s son. And that… _that_ cognisance crushed his heart to splinters.

Rather than risk the water being too hot for sensitive skin - _Lambert had no fucking idea whether it was too hot or not, but he wasn’t going to fuck that up too -_ he wet and soaped his washcloth. Cal was quiet, eyes still concerned, but Lambert did his best to put him at ease as he washed him. “You know, you’re lucky,” he murmured. “The last few kids to come here got put through the mutations, and Ciri trained to be a Witcher too. No mutagens, though. We don’t do that anymore. And you don’t have to train if you don’t want to, maybe you could be a bard. Jaskier can teach you, and - .” Cal blinked at him and gurgled quietly. “Yeah, you’re right. I am shit at this. Sorry. You couldn’t have been lumped with a worse option. The last two got Geralt and Eskel. I mean, Eskel wasn’t _great_ , didn't collect her, but he would’ve been if she hadn’t been totally crazy.” 

A washbasin. He should’ve brought down a washbasin. That would’ve been fucking logical, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t do anything fucking right. With Cal swaddled in a towel, Lambert pulled off the remainder of his clothes and quickly scrubbed himself down. He towelled himself off and bundled his clothes into a ball under one arm, before scooping Cal from the floor and heading up to his room. Not too disastrous, only one near-drowning; Lambert counted that as a victory.

***

Dinner consisted of roasted boar with root vegetables. On the Path, Lambert had been pre-chewing the food a little bit to give Cal half a chance of gnawing through it, but Vesemir had overcooked a separate portion, and the lad attacked the plate with gusto. Both chubby fists full of mashed potato, carrot and parsnip tried to disappear into his mouth at the same time, and he chuckled when Lambert tried to wipe his face for the thousandth time. “If you used one fucking hand, you might actually get some of it _in_ your mouth.”

“What age do babies start talking?” Eskel mused, placing his cutlery together. Whereas Lambert had barely touched his meal, he’d managed to polish off seconds.

“Not sure. But that kid’s first word is going to be fuck,” Geralt smirked around the sip of wine that followed, and Lambert glowered at him across the table. “Or prick. Could be problematic.”

“Hm.” Eskel glanced at Jaskier, opened his mouth and extended his hands, about to offer to take Caladrius so that Lambert could eat. _But stopped._ The kid hadn’t really been near him much. Hadn’t got a _proper_ look at his face. He’d look like a monster with his warped lip and savaged cheek, so he looked again at the bard to his right with a pointed flick of the head.

“Lambert, dear heart. Pass him to me so that you can eat your supper.” Jaskier threw his napkin onto the table - _he demanded one during his stays at Kaer Morhen to maintain some semblance of civilisation -_ and stood with his arms out.

“Right, yeah, thanks.” Lambert passed Cal across the table and his remaining plate of mush, before picking up his own fork. Geralt leaned across to help Jaskier marshal the trajectory of the food from plate to mouth - between the two of them, they managed to get the majority of the food mush _into_ the baby rather than on the floor - and Vesemir discussed the wyverns he believed to be nesting higher in the valley with Eskel. With the quiet hum of noise around him, Lambert thought that he could probably close his eyes for a second, and - 

Cutlery, goblets and plates clattered as Lambert flung out a hand to halt his fall from the bench. “Woah,” Eskel stood and leaned over to steady him. “You haven’t even had anything to drink.” Trying to make light of it, but he cast a concerned glance down to Vesemir. “You alright?” He reached a hand across to settle over the back of the splayed fingers pressed against the tabletop, but Lambert yanked them away at the first brush of Eskel’s palm. 

“Fine. Just. Tired. I’ll - uh, give him here, I need to clean him up before bed.” Lambert circled the table and scooped Cal from Jaskier’s lap before he could protest. “See you in the morning.” Food-covered child under one arm, Lambert grabbed an apple from the tray for dessert - one of the few left, in fact - and left the kitchen. 

Eskel rubbed his eyes when booted footsteps faded. “I think if we give him any more time to ask for help, he’s going to disintegrate. He looks _worse_ than when he arrived.” 

Geralt nodded. “Yes. We’ll get your sketches turned into a cot. He needs to start building some resilience now that he’s slept a few nights here.” 

“I’ll start on the clothes. If you can get me one of his shirts, I’ll make a doll-like I made Ciri in her first week.” Vesemir murmured, gathering plates into a pile in front of him. 

“Well,” Jaskier hummed. “I suppose that leaves me with Lambert then.”


	3. You Will Be Found

“It’s perfect.” Jaskier ran his hand over the smoothly sanded wood of the cot and then leaned over to press his palm into the cushion of the mattress inside. Between them, Eskel and Geralt had collected together the materials from broken furniture in the old dormitory, sanded, repurposed and produced a beautifully ornate - and sturdy - bed. The Witcher Signs carved into the headboard - Igni, Axii, Aard, Yrrden, Heliotrop and Somne - flanked a wolf’s head that matched the medallion around their necks; two wolves welcoming their new pup in the only way they knew how. The sides were high enough to contain even their energetic little gremlin. “I see a career in carpentry in your futures.”

“Geralt’s always been clever with his hands,” Eskel smirked, and Geralt took the invitation to back him right up into the wall nearby, eyes bright with mischief. Those very same hands set to work beneath the hem of Eskel’s shirt, while Geralt trapped his mouth in a kiss. Despite spending a week of nights with his hands and lips all over both of them, Geralt still hadn’t slaked the burning hunger in the pit of his stomach. He knew why. _Their proverbial nest wasn’t complete._ It was missing one vital component, and none of them felt _content_ without him there. If someone had told Geralt a couple of years ago that he’d be craving a huge dose of Lambert during the winter, he’d have questioned their sanity. But here he was, wishing to bury his face in the little runt’s neck, to kiss his skin as he writhed uncontrollably and listen to him purr with bliss. _Fucking Lambert..._

The bard huffed. “You’re like two hormonal teenagers. _Focus._ We’re halfway through a plan here,” he paused as Eskel drew in a shuddering breath; _one_ of Geralt’s hands sat high up on his chest, thumb circling slowly around a nipple as he inspected Jaskier with a raised eyebrow, while the other plucked idly at the ties of his trousers. His expression read - very clearly - _are you serious? Look at him._ Jaskier sighed, “Oh, alright. But I claim first rights on Lambert once he’s slept.” 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and then he glanced back at Eskel. The scent rolling off of him was heady and rich; irresistible when it was primed for the taking. “Mm, fine.” Geralt grumbled, and then returned fully to his current prey. 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Eskel murmured, somewhat breathless already.

“No.” Geralt and Jaskier informed him, simultaneously. The latter settled in an armchair for a better view debating whether he’d bother seeing to himself or save the imagery for this evening. _Decisions, decisions._

Geralt tugged open the ties of Eskel’s trousers as he mouthed his neck and pinched the nipple in his custody. Teeth nipped at his lower lip in retribution when he pulled back, but before Eskel could gain purchase on him, Geralt slipped down to his knees. Eskel’s prick had already started to thicken, and he eased it free with a satisfied smirk. There wasn’t another cock this good anywhere else on the Continent. Even with the span of both of his palms, Geralt still couldn’t touch every inch; it sat hot and heavy under its own weight, and Geralt pushed his face into Eskel’s groin to savour the musky scent of his arousal. In the safety of their own home, under the appreciative eyes of Jaskier, he could take his time to enjoy every guilty pleasure he had, and that included their most intimate scents. With one gripping at the base, he wrapped his lips around the head and teased the tip of his tongue firmly through the slit. Eskel grunted, head falling back against the wall behind him as he buried one set of fingers in Geralt’s hair, while the other clutched his own thigh in a death grip to keep his hips still.

With a wistful sigh, Geralt swallowed more, suckling wetly. He closed his eyes, the stretch of his mouth a glorious mirror of being filled in other ways; of having Eskel push so deep he could barely breathe; of having every inch draw along the sweet spot inside of him, leaving him gaping; of feeling him for hours after even though the barriers of the mutagens. Almost like his body _wanted_ the imprint to last. 

Geralt’s hand strayed inside his own braies as memories of their previous evening built a pressure he couldn’t ignore. He stroked himself slowly, precome beading at his head and dripping over the edge of his palm; he moaned around his mouthful and sank lower until Eskel’s head blocked his throat. Tongue laving over a thick vein beneath Eskel’s shaft, he huffed through his nose as the muscles at the back of his mouth contracted automatically.

“Aah, _Geralt_ ,” Eskel growled, grip tightening in shaggy strands of silvery white. Summoned by such a needy moan, Geralt rose slowly and pressed through Eskel’s hold to kiss him, hips grinding forward as he collected them both inside the grip of his hand. He couldn’t encircle their collective girth fully, and Eskel dropped a palm to join him as they rutted together. Geralt planted his free hand on the wall above Eskel’s shoulder, while Eskel settled his on Geralt’s hip, urging him on.

The slick of his saliva was barely enough; the friction eased by the plentiful amount of pre-come leaking from both of them. Geralt moaned into Eskel’s shoulder, whispering his name with the same timorous devotion as one would pray to a god. This ardent worship pushed Eskel to peak first; Geralt kept moving, hips graceful and swift, as Eskel arched into him. The impressive load lubricated the glide of Geralt’s hand, and the filthy sound of it made him come shortly after, enjoying only a few more breathless tugs of Eskel’s twitching, hypersensitive cock before he slumped forward against his chest. 

The hand knotted in his hair drew his face up, and Geralt melted into the wet, languid kiss offered, his own fingers still lightly circling across the thick length beneath them. When they pulled apart, Geralt turned to see Jaskier watching them with dreamy, lidded eyes. “Enjoy the show?” The Witcher rumbled; he blinked in surprise when their wily bard managed to duck the come-smeared hand diving straight for his hair.

“Ah-ha, better than any offered by the Continent’s finest brothels,” Jaskier padded towards the door of Eskel’s bedroom. “Now, phase one of the plans. Make sure you air this room out. You smell like two wolves in heat.” 

Geralt looked at Eskel, who had just finished buttoning himself back up. “Geralt, if you wipe that hand on me, I will make sure you can’t walk for a week after tonight.” His threat was met with a feral grin, and he immediately hunkered down in preparation. Several pieces of furniture broke during the resulting scuffle - they were careful around the cot - and Eskel ended up sprawled on the rug as Geralt lapped their combined seed from the scars on his face. 

***

Jaskier found Lambert pacing in the kitchen, with Cal crying pitifully in his arms. “I don’t know what’s wrong. He’s changed, and he won’t eat, and he slept for like… six hours last night. But he won’t _stop._ ”

Vesemir placed a hand on Lambert’s shoulder to still him and leaned over the child’s face; he put a palm on Cal’s forehead and then tugged his mouth open with a thoughtful hum. “Your hands clean?”

“Uh, yeah, I had to wash them after - what are you - ?” Lambert resisted Vesemir’s grip briefly, before allowing the old wolf to extract his index finger from his fist and place the knuckle into Cal’s mouth. The child gurgled and then bit down, still sniffling, but apparently soothed by the pressure for the moment. “What the - ?”

“He’s teethin’,” Vesemir glanced up at Jaskier and greeted him with a nod, before pulling out a box of dried herbs from underneath the kitchen counter. “I’ll make him somethin’ to chew on, but these aren’t even the worst ones. Molars come through later.”

“How did you know -? It gets worse?” That desolate expression was back. Even though Cal was now only bubbling and sniffling, Lambert looked at him with wide, dismal amber eyes.

Jaskier stepped forward. “Here, let me hold him for a bit. Give your arms a rest. And have something to eat, we missed you at breakfast.” _And lunch._ He’d stopped by to grab Cal’s meal quickly and then scarpered; Jaskier had a horrible feeling it was because he was worried about being seen to struggle.

“Right, uh, yeah,” Lambert passed his gurgling bundle across, and then wiped his hands down his shirt, gazing into space. “Actually, I’ve got to go and - check the horse - .” The excuse was poor. Geralt was spending two hours or so in the stables each day with Dandelion and Roach; they had a lot of catching up to do after his year away. While he was there, Scorpion and Lambert’s as yet unnamed gelding were brushed and fed too.

Vesemir put a hand out to stay Jaskier’s protest, and once Lambert was gone spoke quietly. “Leave him for a bit. He needs a moment to catch his breath.” The Witcher was slicing up valerian root amongst several other dried leaves. “I’ll make three of these. Keep two outside freezin’, and then dampen one for the pain now.”

“You continue to dazzle me with your encyclopedic knowledge of the world,” Jaskier cooed at Cal, flinching briefly as the few existing teeth bit into his finger. “How on earth did you know he was teething?”

“A lot of boys were surrendered to us while still in swaddlin’,” Vesemir began to divide his pile of chopped herbs into three small, linen squares. “Geralt was one of them. He was only a touch older than your boy there when he was dumped in my arms.”

“That’s -” Jaskier began, but there were no words. The thought of a tiny Geralt - green-eyed, and brown-haired, frightened and alone, surrounded by strangers and yearning for the safety of his mother again - was almost too much to bear. A year didn’t go by - even after all this time - without discovering something about his pack of wayward wolves that broke his heart. They didn’t like to talk about their _before_ , not even his beloved gentle giant, who would happily talk to him about _anything._ “And Lambert? Eskel?” 

“Eskel is of hill-folk stock. I figure that’s why he’s so big and likes huntin’ in the mountains even though the money’s not good. His natural habitat. He was walking and talking by the time he got here, but he doesn’t remember much more than a song his mother used to sing. Lambert -,” Vesemir finished tying off the three bundles and sighed, “he remembers everything. From Aedirn. Farming community. He was a feral little runt when he arrived, but savvy. And that’s his burden.” He dipped the three bundles into fresh drinking water and passed one across to Jaskier, indicating Cal’s mouth worthlessly. “If it bursts, take it away. The herbs’ll numb the pain; cold water will help too. Tilt him up a bit, so he doesn't choke.”

“Geralt would argue he’s still a feral little runt.” Jaskier smiled and replaced his forefinger with the linen bundle. Cal sniffed it suspiciously, and then immediately bit down with a delighted giggle. He was generally a happy little thing. A delight. “The cot’s ready. Do you have the dolls?” 

“Yes,” Vesemir walked towards the hearth where his basket of sewing sat and plucked two humanoid shapes from beneath a pile of linen. They had legs, arms, bodies and a large, squishy head. “Should still smell of him. If he sleeps with this one under his pillow, then you swap ‘em over every night. Boy’ll get attached to one of ‘em eventually; then you won’t need to swap ‘em for the scent anymore.”

“And you did this for Ciri too?” Jaskier took one of the dolls with a fond smile, while Vesemir kept hold of the other.

“Kaer Morhen’s a frightening place for a child. When we were making Witchers, we couldn’t coddle ‘em. Had to get ‘em ready for much worse. But with Ciri, I - well.” He smiled fondly, and Jaskier beamed right back.

“That big ol’ heart just couldn’t help itself, eh?” 

“Don’t go spreadin’ it around.” Vesemir shot back with a mock scowl and then turned towards the door. “I’ll go and collect the stray. You settle the littlun down.”

“When you find him, tell him I’ve taken him to the baths.” Jaskier headed upstairs to Eskel’s room, and Vesemir stepped out into the courtyard.

***

Lambert sat on the battlements and stared out over Morhen Valley trying to ignore the hopeless swell in his chest. _He couldn’t do this._ Every waking moment felt like hell. He’d never felt so _drained._ And he was just losing his temper at every little thing, and he was pretty sure Cal was frightened of him half the time. _Fuck._ He’d managed to ruin a kid’s life after swearing he’d never be such a fucking idiot, and - his nose tilted up to the sky and he heaved a deep sigh. “How’d you know where I was?”

Vesemir hauled himself up onto the turret - the very tallest point of the castle - and brushed his gloved palms down his shirt. “You think you’re the first young wolf to look for solace in the open skies?” He walked across the rooftop, kicking away tiles and miscellaneous debris, and took up a seat on the battlement at Lambert’s side. “I know you come up here when you need space.”

“Surprised your old ass can do the climb.”

“Lookin’ to run the Killer this winter then, are you?” 

Lambert smirked, but the sardonic mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “I was thinking of going and checking on ol’ Speartip. I’m sure he’s missed crushing skulls.” 

“You’re bein’ melodramatic.”

A low growl. “If you’ve come to give me a fucking lecture, you can take a running leap off this - .”

“No,” Vesemir lifted a hand. “I’ve come to tell you that you’re doing a great job.”

Lambert looked at Vesemir with his mouth open, legitimately stunned. “Did you just -? Was that a - ?” He tried to remember the last time - _any_ time - the old Witcher had actually complimented or praised him. _Nope. Came up blank._ “Fuck, did I fall off and die on my climb up here?”

“But,” Vesemir qualified, and Lambert threw his hands up in the air, “you need to let the pack help.”

“Because I’m fucking it up, yeah, I know. You don’t need to tell me that.”

“You know, boy, you do like puttin’ words in people’s mouths, and usin’ that selective hearin’ of yours. Gives you an excuse to lose your rag and get defensive. Thought you’d outgrown that over the last couple of years. Sit. And listen. You hear?” He took the side-eye as confirmation. “No Witcher has ever raised a child by themselves. I - all my brothers - _we_ had an entire keep of others, with experience, time, and resources.”

“That went really well for y - .” Lambert caught the baleful glare and fell silent. Even after all this time, his begrudging respect for Vesemir endured. _Well, to his face._

“To cut the sob story short, you don’t have that, but what you _do_ have is somethin’ a damn sight better,” Vesemir scratched the stubble on the side of his cheek, and then reached inside his gambeson to pull the second doll out and pass it across. “You have a family. The three men down there love your prickly, bitter ass, and they’ve been mopin’ around for the last week without you. Let ‘em help.”

Lambert took the doll and turned it over in his hands. The design was familiar; he remembered Ciri clutching the very same as she slept in those first few months. Young, quietly terrified. Older than Cal, but still just a kid. “I’m not Geralt or Eskel, I’m - I keep losing my shit, and I’m worried that - .”

“You keep losin’ your shit because you’re a Witcher that’s been on the Path for a year and you’re tired, boy. I’d be the same. Eskel, Geralt. The same. So, tell me what’s _really_ eatin’ you.”

“I’m worried I’m like my father.” He blurted it out and then immediately clenched his teeth because his fucking _chest_ hurt and he was pretty sure his _eyes_ were stinging. _What the fuck?_ If he cried in front of Vesemir, he was going to throw himself off the fucking roof. Luckily, he managed to bite it back. “If I - if I hurt him I couldn’t live with myself. If I ever do, just kill me. Just - .”

“Hm,” Vesemir examined the snowy mountaintops beyond the sprawling expanse of fir trees. “What was your mother like?”

“Beautiful, kind, she’d do anything for anyone, laughed a lot when he had fucked off somewhere, and we used to play games in the meadows. She was fierce too. Fought until she couldn’t. Every time. And she went without so I could eat, and - yeah, she was just - she was good.” 

“Well, son,” the old wolf pushed himself to his feet. “Then there’s your answer. You’re not your father.” He walked back towards the edge. “You’re your mother. ‘Part from the beautiful bit.” A smirk and Vesemir climbed down towards the first ledge. “Jaskier’s takin’ Cal for a bath. Says you need to show him what to do.” 

“Oh, fuck.” Lambert overtook Vesemir on the second ledge, essentially free-falling the majority of the way down the side of the keep in his haste to get to the ground. Vesemir's epiphany was filed away for future Lambert to agonise over.

***

Jaskier waited on the edge of the spring with his legs crossed. He had the soaps, the oils, a razor, a jug and a towel ready at his side, along with a bottle of the dwarven ale Geralt had brought with him from the Mahakham settlements he’d wandered through on his way home. The frantic footfalls that approached from the hallway behind drew his attention, but he didn’t turn until Lambert was looming over him. “Where’s Cal? Oh shit, did he fall in?” It didn’t occur to his tired brain that Jaskier would probably be substantially _less_ calm if there were a drowning infant in front of him and scrambled forward to peer into the water. “It’s like he’s fucking drawn to shit that’ll kill him.” _No Cal._ He looked at Jaskier in confusion.

“He’s asleep upstairs with Geralt and Eskel. He cried for all of three seconds; the doll was a big hit,” Jaskier unfurled to his feet and grabbed hold of Lambert’s belt as he turned to leave. “Ah, ah. No, you don’t.”

“Buttercup, I - .”

“He’s fed, warm, clean and being watched over by two of the fiercest men on the Continent. I pity the bed bug that tries to do him harm,” Jaskier smiled brightly and then lifted a palm to cup Lambert’s jaw when amber eyes still looked uncertain. “He can spare you for an hour or so. I, however, am yearning. And worried. Let me look after you, and I can assuage my aching heart.” How does one lure a Witcher? You present a bath, with pleasant smells and soft hands. _Worked. Every. Damned. Time._ Now _taming_ one was a bit long-winded, you had to -, _Jaskier should write a book._ He filed the thought away for later because he was currently intently reeling in his latest catch.

Lambert glanced over his shoulder again, brow still knitted together in concern. _Let them help._ He gazed down at the doll in his hand, thumb pressing into the soft chest, and then he heaved a sigh. “Yeah, I’d - that’d be nice.” Doll placed reverently aside; he reached to begin undoing his belt, only to have his hands batted away. His arms hung limply by his sides as his pretty bard undressed him with deft fingers, occasionally pausing to kiss him - on the lips, on the neck, on the forehead - before ushering him into the water.

“Hmm, you need a shave too. We’ll do that after.” Jaskier rolled his breeches up to his knees and splayed his legs either side of the broad shoulders pressed against the edge of the pool. He smiled gently when Lambert gathered one of his bare feet into his lap, his thumb circling on the soft skin just behind his ankle. 

Despite his natural inclination to talk, hum or sing while he worked, Jaskier knew there was a more subtle, far more satisfying, game to be played. Sensitive Witcher hearing would pick up the slow thrum of his resting heartbeat, each steady breath he drew, and the bubble of the spring; a soothing, quiet lullaby for a mind usually full of activity _._ His wolf would then focus in on the feel of the firm fingers massaging the soap into his scalp, neck, and shoulders; his eyes would grow heavy as the tension eased. _And finally,_ as his limbs became pliant and he leaned back, the quiet rumble of Lambert’s purr would occasionally punctuate the peace as he lost himself to the pleasure of being cared for. Predictably, the bard won his private little game. Lambert melted without fuss.

As those subtle vibrations trembled up through his palms, Jaskier rubbed soap down Lambert’s chest and then his back when he leaned forward. “Feel good?” He whispered as his lips drew close to Lambert’s ear, and received an affirmative rumble as his hands dipped below the waterline. Tender caresses circled lower, and Lambert spread his legs further, head tilted back to Jaskier’s shoulder. The bard chuckled, “Stand up.”

The water cascaded down Lambert’s back as he pushed himself up onto unsteady legs, and Jaskier took a moment to admire the body he'd yet to have the opportunity to _fully_ appreciate this winter, before nudging his hip to turn him. Soft lips lingered barely inches away from his thickening erection, and the bard grinned. “I forgot how nice your cock is. Haven’t seen it since Posada.” The brush of the washcloth around tender areas and the flutter of his breath across its silky skin only nursed it to fullness; too enticing to ignore. Jaskier slid his hands around the back of Lambert’s thighs as he took that beautiful cock into his mouth, moaning wantonly in appreciation. Once he’d worked through the odd taste of the spring water, he swirled his tongue eagerly through the salty taste beading at Lambert’s head. His lover growled and gasped, muscles quivering; Jaskier shifted a hand to play gently with his balls, two fingers pressing down his perineum in long, firm strokes.

“‘M not gonna’ last.” Lambert bit out, teeth clenched. _‘Cause, you just couldn’t with a kid in the room, and - ahh, fuck._ Where was that famed fucking stamina when he needed it? Oh, right, it’d fucked off with his ability to stay awake, and think like a normal person - and - “Mmph.” _Well, that was fucking mortifying._ And a lot. There was - _he was still coming_ , but Buttercup drank it all down like the hero he was. “I - uh - .”

Jaskier grinned, lapping teasingly up Lambert’s twitching shaft. “I’ll add that to my list of accolades. Making a Witcher come in under three minutes.”

“Don’t tell the others. The fucking nicknames alone would be - .”

“Your secret is safe with me. However, as with all things, dear heart, I have a price.”

Lambert huffed. “Oh yeah?”

“Two days of bed rest with us. Vesemir will look after Cal during the day. He’s already agreed to it.”

“The old man has _agreed_ to that? And when you say us - ?” 

“Geralt, Eskel and I. We’ve all been thoroughly deprived, and we wish to get our rightful fill.” 

“Well, shit,” Lambert blinked and rubbed a hand down his face. Had to be the first time in sixty winters that they’d had more than a day or so off without sixty foot of snow outside. Even then, the old bastard found them things to do inside the keep. He glanced down at Jaskier’s hand as it stroked up and down his thigh; two days of that would be pretty good. “I - as long as I can check in, I’m - yeah.” 

“Excellent,” Jaskier stood and pulled Lambert out by the hand. “Sit. I’ll neaten up your beard, and then we’ll head up to bed.” Filling the jug with water from the spring, Jaskier foamed soap in Lambert’s beard and set about trimming it down to its usual length. Tired amber eyes followed his movements, head tilting back to reveal his throat without reservation; Jaskier mused that he was probably the only human that ever pressed a blade to a Witcher’s throat and lived to tell the tale. He rubbed oil into his palms and smoothed it through the hair that remained, smiling as cat-pupils blew wider in renewed pleasure. “Perfect. Eskel likes this scent on you.”

“He does?” Lambert wiped his palm across his face and then pressed his nose to it. Citrus and bergamot, with a hint of orange blossom and patchouli; it smelled similar to the bath salts that Geralt had used nearly a year and a half ago. “I think you’ve made him soft, Buttercup.” _Yeah, alright, it was a nice scent._

“He’s always been soft.” Jaskier wrapped the towel around Lambert’s waist when he stood, grabbed his clothes off the floor, along with the second doll, and took his hand. “They’ll be chomping at the bit by now. Come on, my love.”

The warmth of Eskel’s room was a stark contrast to the freezing corridors outside, and Jaskier drew in a sigh of relief when he shut out the constant, bitter wind behind him. Eskel and Geralt were playing cards on the bed and looked up simultaneously, but Lambert made a beeline straight for the cot. He peered down at the sleeping child inside and breathed a sigh of relief. Once he was certain that his son was content, he ran his fingers over the engravings in the headboard of the cot and felt a huge swell of affection bloom through his chest. _Geralt and Eskel had made this._ He recognised their work. 

“Lambert.” Jaskier’s voice was soft enough to go unnoticed by their slumbering pup but audible to keen ears; the Witcher in question looked up and then followed the beckoning hand to the bed. Eskel sat up and immediately encircled him, pawing the towel away and leaving it dumped on the floor. Lambert growled in warning as he was shoved, but fell instantly silent when he was bundled under the furs, and the familiar scents of his family flooded over him; he turned his face into Eskel’s throat and breathed deeply, eyes closed.

Geralt notched his nose beneath Lambert’s ear with a pleased rumble and wrapped an arm around his waist. Their bard slotted in around Geralt’s back; not his usual place, but he knew the importance of letting them wrap around Lambert for the night. Jaskier smiled at the bright, pleased shine in Eskel’s eyes and pressed his palm to Geralt’s chest to feel the softest purr humming away deep inside. _Their nest was complete._ The last thread of tension unspooled from Lambert’s spine, and he melted gratefully into the throes of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written to the tune of:
> 
> [You Will Be Found](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSfH2AuhXfw) OBC of Dear Evan Hansen


	4. Silver Glass

Quiet snuffles from the cot stirred Jaskier from his sleep. He felt Geralt shift in his arms, and in turn Lambert’s eyes flickered. “No. Stay here. I’ll go and make sure he’s alright.” He whispered and stroked the backs of his fingers down the faces of the two sleepy Witchers beside him. Geralt murmured quietly in Lambert’s ear and tightened his embrace to prevent him from getting up; the youngest wolf heaved a resigned sigh, but passed the doll he’d been sleeping on top of over to Jaskier.

The room was still moderately warm, but Jaskier could feel the occasional draught brush across his bare legs as he padded over. The cot was relatively close to the hearth - slightly off to the side just in case the flume was blocked for whatever reason - but Cal wasn’t cold. “Hello, young wolf,” Jaskier whispered as he leaned over, and smiled when he received a positive gurgle in response. “Thought you’d wake up and comprehend the cosmos for a bit, hm? Well, shall we do it together?” Blankets carefully bundled around the little form, Jaskier picked Cal up from his cot and held him close, with the freshly Lambert-scented doll placed inside small hands. “There you go, Pa is nearby. Must let him rest though. He’s been so worried about you, he hasn’t been able to sleep.” 

Cal bubbled, and Jaskier nodded in agreement as he wandered over towards the window. Silvery moonlight flooded in through the ancient glass panes and he stood inside its illumination. “Looks like snow. Not surprising, we get a lot of snow up here.” His voice was soft, even though he was unaware of the three pairs of sleepy golden eyes watching him from the bed, because now Eskel was awake too. “Now, why were you upset? Perhaps a little homesick? I understand that. I do miss home sometimes. But that’s what night times are for. Dreaming. Returning to places and people that feel distant during the day. Some even believe that they will feel you near. The night is a beautiful, mysterious thing.”

The babe squeezed the linen doll in small hands, but those bright blue eyes still looked a little mournful. “Well, luckily for you, I have spent a lot of time around the Aen Seidhe and I recall many a lullaby and ballad,” Jaskier smiled and adjusted Cal into his right arm. “Now, let me see… ah, yes,” he took a deep breath, clearing the fog of sleep that remained, “ _lay down your sweet and weary head, the night is falling, you have come to journey’s end, sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before, they are calling, from the distant shore._ ”

All the Witchers were watching, listening, entranced by their beautiful bard framed in ethereal moonlight. “ _Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away, safe in my arms, you’re only sleeping,_ ” his voice stayed soft, and Cal watched him in wonder, “ _What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea, a pale moon rises, the ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass, all light on the water, all souls pass_.” 

Eskel noticed it first. The thrum of his medallion against his chest. He shifted in the bed, head tilted to catch Geralt’s eye, and then Lambert latched onto his own. All three of them looked back to Jaskier, but nothing had changed; there was no disturbance in the room. No sorceress, no impending threat. A warm, soft glow settled over all of them, and their eyes felt heavy. Jaskier continued to sing uninterrupted, “ _Hope fades into the world of night, through shadows falling, out of memory and time, don’t say we have come now to the end, you and I will meet again, and you’ll be here in my arms, just sleeping_.”

As his song faded, so did the hum of the medallions on the Witchers’ chests; they exchanged another glance, and Eskel slowly sat up in bed. Cal was asleep in Jaskier’s arms. The bard stood with his head tilted back and considered the star-studded blanket of midnight sky for a silent moment, before padding back to the cot and lowering the child back onto the mattress. He returned to the bed, but stopped abruptly when he met the two inquisitive amber eyes peering at him, “Eskel, are you alright?” Whispered softly.

“Are you?” Head tilted to the side, his wolf was inspecting him with concern.

“Yes, of course, come on, shuffle over,” Jaskier flapped his hands and Eskel shifted to make room on his side, “perfect, nice and warm.” He murmured as he turned into Eskel’s big chest and closed his eyes. Moments later, Lambert sat up on his elbow and peered down at the snoozing human, exchanging a silent glance with Eskel before bedding back down. 

_Huh. Weird_.

***

They all headed down for breakfast in the morning. Lambert looked better - ruffled, and still bleary-eyed - but a good night’s sleep had done absolute wonders; his eyes were brighter, his skin no longer a drained grey. Jaskier managed to pry Cal out of his arms long enough for him to eat. “Trust me, my love. You’re going to need the energy.” 

Lambert sat up straight and cast a sideways glance at Eskel, who was smirking around the spoon in his mouth. “Don’t worry, buttercup. I could keep up with these old fucks on an hour’s sleep and a diet of bread and water. Should probably take some food up for them to refuel after a couple of hours.” 

“Hm,” Geralt stirred his breakfast and then slowly lifted his eyes to pin Lambert with a heavy gaze. “Feeling brave this morning, little wolf?”

“Cut it out,” Vesemir growled as he appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “You’ve got two days to recuperate. Make sure you’re ready to work on the third.” A slap of the hand across the back of Lambert’s head for good measure, followed by another one for Geralt as he walked by to ladle some porridge into a bowl. “Anythin’ I need to know?” Vesemir indicated Cal, who was currently elbow deep in the bowl of porridge in front of him.

“Uh - he talks a lot, that’s normal, doesn’t like loud noises, and likes being talked to,” Lambert scratched his beard and threw his spoon down. “He can crawl and likes water, and - .”

“Alright,” Vesemir raised a palm. “I can work it out from here.”

Jaskier passed Cal over with a final parting kiss to his forehead, and then hopped up from the bench. He grabbed Lambert by the elbow and tugged him until he reluctantly stood up and followed him up the stairs. When the two were gone, Eskel looked up from his food. “Something happened last night. Set our medallions off.”

Vesemir adjusted Cal on his knee so that he could eat his own porridge. “Oh?”

“Not sure what. Think it’s to do with Caladrius, though. Happened while Jaskier was singing.”

“Well, he looked an’ smelled normal,” Vesemir glanced towards the door. “An’ the littlun seems fine. I’ll keep an eye out. Now get outta’ here. Don’t want any more mopin’, and we’ve got work that needs doin’ before the heavy snows. Make sure you’re all sorted.”

Geralt licked the remaining honey off his spoon, grabbed a few bottles of ale and headed upstairs with Eskel. Jaskier was tending to a small pot over the fire as they entered, and Lambert was sorting through a bag underneath the window. They’d seen fit to move his belongings for him, which was all fine, _but they hadn’t put everything in the right fucking pockets, had they? Salves go on the right, his trophy knife goes in the outside pocket, and -_ “Ahh.” Eskel’s hands swept around his waist and up the front of his chest.

“I wanted you this morning,” Eskel growled into the side of his neck, a series of nips followed by a kiss. “Glad you stopped being a stubborn pain in the ass.”

“Well, if anyone’s going to be a pain in an ass, it’s gonna’ be you in mine, big guy. That thing’s a lethal fucking weapon.” He could feel Eskel’s erection already. Geralt must’ve been teasing him on the way up; there was no way that was all for him. Well, maybe, because now Eskel was pushing it hard against him, his body flushed and hot.

“Hmm, unfortunately you’ve already been reserved for the first round,” Eskel rumbled back, and pulled Lambert’s shirt over his head. “Jaskier’s been whining about your absence since we arrived.”

“Not whining,” Jaskier countered, pulling the pot from the fireplace and pouring its contents into an earthenware jug to cool. “Lamenting, yearning, _pining_ \- .”

“Whining.” Geralt murmured as he walked by and received a light punch on the bicep. He joined Eskel in undressing Lambert, crowding in at the front to undo his belt and shove his trousers and braies down his thighs. “Going to make you howl, little wolf.” With a hand cupping Lambert’s jaw, he leaned in to graze his teeth down his neck, inhaling the familiar musk he’d missed so far this winter. It buried itself deep in his chest, like a final puzzle piece completing his heart, and he couldn't help but press closer still. Teeth became lips and tongue and he dropped his hands to grip Lambert's thighs as his own pushed between them.

“Both getting sentimental in your old age,” Lambert rasped as both Eskel and Geralt scented and touched him tenderly, the tremor of their purrs vibrating through his own chest. Eskel buried his face in his hair and slipped a hand around the base of his hardening cock, lifting it so the head pressed to Geralt’s stomach as he ground in close. “Ahh, fuck.” A harsh bite to the slope of his shoulder; his cock leapt in Eskel’s hand and he pushed back against the huge prick slotting into the cleft of his ass. 

They continued their torturous exploration; gripping, squeezing, grinding, and Lambert melted into Eskel’s hold, relying on the sturdy body behind him to keep him upright. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed being touched; being kissed and held by people that loved him - because they did, he knew they did, there was no question - and he hungered for it. The ghost of the loneliness he'd felt in Vizima dissipated when Geralt almost lifted him from the floor and pushed against the bulwark of Eskel's torso. Fuck, he wanted them to take him here, “Please. C’mon.” 

“Get him on the bed. Spread him wide and keep him still for me.” Jaskier commanded the wolves into action, and his obedient hunters stripped away the final shreds of clothing between them before cajoling their captive towards the bed. Lambert stumbled, dizzied by the phantom touches left behind on his skin and the thick scent of their combined arousal. Eventually, he made it and sat down on the edge only to have two sets of strong hands manhandle him onto his back.

Geralt and Eskel each hooked one of his legs beneath their arm as they settled down pressed to either side. They kissed his throat, shoulders and chest as they brought their captive limb under control. He wriggled and strained, testing their strength and resolve. Geralt gathered both his wrists with one hand and pinned them above his head to prevent him from pushing and clawing. “Yield. Let go. You're ours now. For two days.” The hand he had beneath Lambert’s thigh wandered lower, fingers dipping into the channel of his cleft to spread his ass further as Jaskier approached with the jug of warm oil in his hand.

“What a beautiful offering. Still such a tight little hole too.” Jaskier purred as he knelt on the bed; he tucked his knees either side of Lambert’s hips beneath his spread thighs. “I bought this in Ard Carraigh on our way home. Tastes and smells fantastic.” Voice soft, he poured the oil over the Witcher’s stomach in a long trail; it dripped over his cock where it lay thick and heavy over his abdomen, slid down the crease of his thighs to soak in the sheets beneath and pooled in the grooves of his abdominal muscles. Jaskier admired the glisten of tanned, scarred skin beneath the sheen, and knew his Witchers would be enamoured by the soft, sweet scent it exuded. “I want you to moan for me, Lambert. I want to hear how good this feels.” Jug placed on the floor at the foot of the bed, Jaskier leaned forward and smoothed his hands down the planes of Lambert’s stomach, avoiding his cock, firm palms ran over his thighs, the curves of his ass, and then his balls until everything shone.

“Buttercup, that - it - ahh!” Lambert arched, his neglected cock twitching as the touch of Jaskier's hands bloomed through him with the same warm ebb of the oil on his skin. A thumb circled behind the head of his glans as another hand squeezed his balls softly, and he moaned as ordered. Eskel leaned up to swallow the sound as if he could sip at the pleasure shuddering through the lean body in his grasp. Geralt watched Jaskier work with parted lips; the way Lambert's muscles rippled beneath the pressure of his palms, the slick sounds of oiled flesh accompanied by breathy, helpless whimpers.

Lambert gasped as two slick fingers pushed straight into his hole, burying to the knuckle; the stretch was phenomenal, the pleasure enhanced by the knowledge that he had no choice. He was held fast by the two men pressed to his side, his legs splayed like a whore to be used. But it didn't fill him with fear. Bad memories were distant in the safety of this bed, with lovers that cared for him. He wanted to be used by these men, fucked within an inch of his life and marked; his scent to mingle and join with that of each of them until it wasn't clear where one ended and the other began. He belonged to them. Eskel took over stroking his cock as Jaskier withdrew his fingers until just the tips hooked inside Lambert’s rim, before plunging them back in to force another breathless cry. 

“You’re going to come like this, Lambert. Then I’m going to watch you suck your seed off of Eskel’s fingers while I fuck your little hole, and make you come again.” Jaskier growled, moving his fingers faster, angled to find the nobule of flesh inside Lambert that made him keen; he knew this body well. Knew how to make it sing, how to make it purr and rumble in pleasure. As he watched his lover unravel, Jaskier soaked his other hand in some of the remaining oil from Lambert’s stomach and stroked down his own shaft.

Having this fierce, feral creature pinned for his use was a heady kind of power; he would ensure Lambert was reduced to exhausted ecstasy by the evening. The tight furl around his fingers suddenly clutched and spasmed; Jaskier buried them to the last knuckle and circled Lambert's prostate through the tremors of his orgasm. “So beautiful when you surrender to me," he knew his words were powerful, he chose them carefully, watched their impact as Lambert pressed his legs into the grip of the Witchers either side of him. His body supplicating itself before Jaskier's eyes. "Be a good boy, clean Eskel off.”

Lambert’s mouth fell open obediently and he swirled his tongue around the thick fingers that slid over his lower lip. The saltiness of his own come mixed with the slightly sweet taste of the oil, and he drooled liberally as the fat head of Jaskier’s cock pressed inside his rim. Eskel fingers stretched his mouth, and all he could do was moan wetly as he was taken, his head forced back to expose his throat for Geralt.

“Tilt his hips up more, I want to breed him properly.” Jaskier sheathed himself fully and leaned to plant his hands on the back of Lambert’s knees for purchase; he gathered his feet beneath him to use the strength of his thighs and his core to add force behind his thrusts. Even though he was slightly looser from his climax, Lambert’s ass still pulled him in and Jaskier moaned in appreciation as he bottomed out in the glorious grip of the taut body below.

"Gods, Lambert. You feel so good, made to take my cock, ahh - ahh, so beautiful stretched out like this, mine to enjoy. Howl for me, wolf." Jaskier abused that brilliantly short Witcher refractory period and held on until Lambert was hard and coming again, untouched this time. Eskel bunched a hand in his captive's hair and released his leg to lean over and kiss him; biting, fierce, possessive. Geralt too loosened his hold, allowing Lambert to wrap Jaskier's waist as the bard sank back to his knees. He thrust lazily through his own climax, head tilted, thick cock pulsing. 

Withdrawing slowly, Jaskier placed a kiss on Lambert's knee and lounged back. Blessed as he was, he was still very much human and needed his recovery time. He'd just have to sit and watch three Witchers fuck. Oh such a difficult life he led, dear reader. Eskel immediately hauled Lambert up the bed and lay chest to chest, mouth stolen again as he lifted one oil slick leg to drape over his hip. Jaskier's spend dripped down Lambert's thighs, and it was too much for Geralt to resist. He spooned up to Lambert's back and grabbed a handful of his ass. "Ready, little wolf?"

"Yeah, Geralt, please." Lambert wheezed, head tilted back for air. A big hand wrapped his throat and pulled his head back further to Geralt's shoulder, with a harsh kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth as Geralt pushed inside. 

"Mm. So hot." A low growl as Lambert trembled, sensitive and pliant. The pace was slow, but deep and thorough. Geralt wanted Lambert to feel every inch of him, for their bodies to be melded together. 

"Faster, Geralt, please. Fuck. A-ahh."

"Take what you're given, little wolf."

Eskel gathered Lambert's cock against his and palmed them both in the same easy rhythm, eyes locked with Geralt's, his own haze of lust reflected back in bright pools of gold as they plundered their prey. The room filled with a symphony of moans and growls; Lambert reached behind and gripped weakly at Geralt's ass, but otherwise was helpless to control anything. Their joint release was unhurried, and Lambert's body seized with the building power of it until he could only pant desperately. Geralt came with a low moan and a few more slow, powerful pistons of his hips, before withdrawing. 

They stayed coiled around each other in the breathless moments that passed. Geralt kept Lambert's head pinned back so that Eskel could mouth down his collarbone and chest, hands wandering at will where ever they wished. When Eskel pressed his palm between Lambert's legs and slipped two thick fingers into his hole, his lover bucked and cried out. The sound and feel of it conjured a feral need deep in Eskel's chest and he flexed them to coax another reedy moan. "He's so wet. And gaping." Breathed, incredulous.

Geralt smirked. "Not as much as he will be. How'd you want him?" 

"Hands and knees." Eskel pressed his fingers in a second time, making Lambert buck again, before withdrawing to readjust. Geralt helped position Lambert on his knees, and ducked to rub his face through his beard with a quiet purr. He joined Jaskier, who slipped around to the side of the bed, and they watched Eskel line up. They both knew the devastating pleasure of being fucked by the goliath between Eskel's legs, but it was just as good to watch someone else come undone on it.

"Eskel, c'mon, please," Lambert pleaded as he felt the thick head press to his rim. Knew how much awaited him, and yet Eskel's first measured thrust to the hilt still almost whited him out. His jaw went slack and he yelped, body clutching greedily even as he surged away. Lambert could feel the pressure in his stomach, was pretty sure Eskel would literally knock the air out of his lungs if he thrust hard enough. "Fuck. Fuck. 'Skel. Nn - a-ahh!" 

"Good boy. Feel good?" Eskel panted, because even prepared by two thick cocks, Lambert's body still gripped at him eagerly. He looked down at the base of his as it slid free, drawing oil and come back with it, and he bit back on the animalistic desire to rut until he'd gentled Lambert.

"Yeah. S - so good." 

"Going to beg me prettily?"

"Eskel, please. Fuck me - fuck me hard - please - I want it."

"You want it hard?"

"Y - yeah, please -." Having Eskel inside and not moving was torture. Lambert could barely breathe, and every pant he did take reminded him of just how much he was currently impaled on.

"Perfect." Eskel gripped Lambert's thighs and pulled him back with force. His lover whimpered and cried, hands scrabbling at the furs below him for purchase as Eskel lifted him up, but still stuttered out pleas for more as Eskel's hips snapped forward in a brutal rut. Jaskier curled into Geralt's lap, head tilted back to his shoulder to accept lazy kisses as they watched Lambert fall to pieces.

Lambert's limbs felt numb, the only centre of sensation the raw, blistering heat ripping through his torso as Eskel thrust into him. The grip on Lambert's thighs bruised, and Eskel lost the calm, collected man to the primal beast in his chest. The combined scents of Jaskier, Geralt and Lambert flooded his conscious mind, and he wanted to both join and eradicate them with his own. The possessive animal in him saw them all as his. They would all smell of him before the end. As their pleasure crested higher and higher, Lambert lost the ability to speak completely, occasionally mewling incoherent sounds until finally he came. His vision blacked out and he went limp in Eskel's grip. Eskel thrust deep as he found release, the fluttering spasm of Lambert's body greeted with a rapturous moan. 

Jaskier left Geralt's lap and flopped down next to their spent lover as amber eyes opened slowly. "Going to get you clean, and then you will sleep for a few hours. No arguments." The response was a quiet huff, but Lambert didn't protest as a damp cloth mopped the oil and come from his skin. The dull ache inside his body was glorious, and he basked in it as he curled up to Eskel's side. The calm, gentle man back to stroke his hair and whisper soft love in his ear. "'Skel." A breathy whisper of returned adoration as he passed out.

Lambert slept through lunch, and when he woke in the mid afternoon, they let him pull on some clothes to check on Cal. He was barely missed, and found his son napping happily in Vesemir's arms by the fire in the library. When Lambert returned to Eskel's room, he settled on the floor at Eskel's feet by the hearth and dozed some more under a gentle hand. As the sun began to descend, he melted easily into position as Geralt slipped his collar and harness on; pushed onto all fours, he begged and moaned wantonly, happy to float in bliss and forget just for a few hours that anything existed outside the four of them.

***

Many years had passed since Vesemir had cared for a young pup. He, of course, diligently looked after his four older ones - three Witchers and their bard - but their newest addition required some readjustment. For the morning, he showed Cal the castle. Propped on Vesemir's hip, the lad peered inquisitively at everything he was shown; the old dormitory, the armoury, the stables and even the staircase down to the laboratory. He was most enamoured by the library, and that warmed the old wolf's heart to no end.

"Knowledge is power and survival, Caladrius. The Witcher that lives the longest is the one that knows the most." Vesemir sat down in an old armchair once he'd found the book he was looking for, and sat Cal in his lap against his chest. "And the most powerful knowledge is that of yourself. Shall we find out a bit more about you, littlun?"

The book itself definitely qualified as ancient. Older than even Vesemir, the pages crackled as he turned them and some of the words had faded into nothing. That didn't matter so much, because the book was illustrated beautifully. And it was the pictures he was showing Caladrius. At his age, Cal would be able to see and recognise images. And, based on Lambert's description, Vesemir was certain his hunch would be proven today.

"Many of these beasts are long extinct, boy," he murmured. "Hunted by humans, and by Witchers. That's the sad thing about what we do. Nothin' deserves to be hunted out of existence." Another page, another image. "This is an Enfield. None of those left. Wily and cunning as they were."

Lamasu, baubus, goblins. Cal inspected them all with rapt, intelligent eyes, gurgling merrily as Vesemir talked with him, explaining how they lived, when the last one was seen and some of their myths and legends. The old wolf was becoming rapidly attached. The lad was a happy little bundle of warmth and curiosity.

And then they found an image of white and gold. It stood out from the yellow pages as if it had life itself, and those happy gurgles transformed into a quiet, sad mewl. One little hand reached out and settled over the white bird, with its long, luxurious tails and eye tufts. Vesemir stroked a rough palm over the top of platinum blonde hair as gently as he could, "Ahh, so - is this your other father, hm?" He went to turn the page and Caladrius snuffled unhappily, so he settled it back, and that same little hand returned. "Ahh, well, lad, this does rather complicate things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [Into the West](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ojt0eiFX1K4) Peter Hollens 4:33
> 
> **RIP Ian Holm.**


	5. So Far Away and So Near

It was late on the second day. Eskel and Lambert headed down early to the kitchen to help Vesemir with meal preparation, leaving Geralt to finish his doze sprawled out in front of the fire with Jaskier sketching out a few new lyrics in his journal. The fire crackled and the winter winds howled their sonorous melody through the halls of the keep; it was a lullaby that had lulled Geralt to sleep for many years. These days it was accompanied by the quiet scratch of a quill nib and the odd thoughtful hum. It roused him now from the pits of his dreamless sleep - a warm, dark abyss where his mind surrendered to empty nothingness - and hazy golden eyes focused in on Jaskier.

His bard held his tongue between his teeth, brow lined in concentration. Occasionally the feather dusted across his lightly stubbled chin and Geralt’s keen ear caught the rasp of soft down along coarse bristles. Handsome, angular features cast in flickering firelight, soft and thoughtful, Jaskier had never looked more beautiful. Brown hair still tousled from their earlier tryst bore streaks of faded silver, a badge of wisdom, but they served to remind Geralt of how much time he’d wasted. “Geralt, you have quite a heavy gaze, my love. Is everything alright?” Those mischievous blue eyes glinted as they slid from the journal to the Witcher sprawled out on the bear skin.

“Fine,” Geralt mumbled into his forearms. “What is it about?”

“What is what about?”

“Your new ballad. That’s your composing face.”

“My composing f--,” he chuckled when Geralt lifted his face, poked his tongue out between his teeth and squinted at the floor, “oh, very good. Yes. Fine. It’s about love, Geralt. Inspired by a pale winter moon and three sets of golden eyes. I’m getting wistful in my old age. I find my mind conjures music of love, eternity and starlight far more effortlessly than it does adventure and intrigue these days.”

“Can you sing it to me?”

“Hm. First the poem in Posada, and now you wish to be serenaded. Perhaps I’m not the only one turning into an aged romantic.” Jaskier teased, but leaned to the side and picked up his lute anyway. “Forgive me, I may drop a note here and there. This will be my first play through.” He cleared his throat and began to pick out his melody. _“On this night the pale moon flies, through the endless starry skies, so hold me close, feel the rhythm of my heart, echoing far, take my hand, lead me where two souls could soar, oh, so far away and so near.”_ The bard’s hand switched effortlessly from plucking to strumming for the odd chord, his beautiful tenor lifting beyond even the endless winds of the valley. _“I have seen your eyes before, in another life I lived, in innocence, I imagined you could fly close to the stars, here I am, waiting for the moon to rise, oh, so far away and so near.”_

Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his fingers covering the notes through his natural memory, and Geralt slid from the bear skin to kneel near Jaskier’s side, his forearms folded across an upraised knee and chin atop them. Jaskier continued uninterrupted, _“I have felt eternity, in the way you look at me, on feathered wings, chase my spirit far and wide, ageless and free, take me there, always towards the place of peace, oh - mmm - oh so far away and so near._ ” He plucked through lyricless bars of music, humming, cycling through vocables, until the final note faded. Rather than startle, Jaskier opened his eyes slowly and gazed at the Witcher kneeling at his feet with warm affection. “What do you think? Three words or - .” 

He didn’t get to finish. Not this time. Geralt moved swiftly, his lips brushing across Jaskier’s - soft, unhurried, awed - and the bard slid his lute away from his lap so that he could sink forward. A kiss from any of his Witchers was as sweet and as heady as any of the finest wines from the duchy of Toussaint, but the way that Geralt kissed him now boasted a unique vintage. His tongue lapped gently into Jaskier’s mouth as if trying to sip at the passion and the heat in his song lyrics - to taste them, to savour them - and Jaskier could do nothing but surrender, his head light, his heart humming. He curled his arms around Geralt’s neck as his Witcher scooped him from the couch fully and drew him across into the firelight. Their clothes slipped away as if melted by the heat of the fire, and Jaskier pressed himself to Geralt’s chest with a breathy moan, grinding along the solid heat of his body, desperate to feel every inch of skin against him.

Geralt drew away, lacing a final few nibbling kisses down the edge of Jaskier’s jaw. “Want you, pretty bard.” One hand stroked slowly up Jaskier’s cock, pressed as it was into the grooves of his abdomen, he traced the swollen head with delicate, teasing fingers and then followed a bulging vein to the soft curls at its base. 

“And what if I want _you_?” Jaskier sat back and examined those glistening pools of melted gold as they considered the offer, his hips rocking lazily into Geralt's gentle ministrations; the friction of his stomach a wondrous addition to the sword calluses on Geralt’s fingertips. It had been _far_ too long since he’d had Geralt squirming and breathless beneath him, and the last time hadn’t even been _complete._ A hasty tryst on a hard, flea-ridden pallet when his Witcher was wounded. In the safety of his - _their_ \- home, Jaskier could gently, slowly undo Geralt until his wolf sang as sweetly as he did.

“Hm.” Head tilted to the side, Geralt readjusted, leaning back to snag the chipped earthenware bowl by the fireplace that contained the remains of Jaskier’s specially purchased oil. It had felt amazing on his prick when it’d been buried in Lambert, and tasted just as good when he’d thrown Eskel over onto his back and sucked every trace of it from him when he’d finished. He rolled over onto his front, stretching like a giant feline against the soft fur of the rug beneath them, and glanced over his shoulder expectantly. 

“Oh, you’re too good to me,” Jaskier whispered and slid to his knees, earthenware bowl placed to one side so that he could knead Geralt’s ass with his thumbs, spreading him open and urging his Witcher to present himself. “Show me everything, Geralt. Bare yourself to me.” And he did. His legs spread across the floor, insides of his knees braced in the plush fur, his cock hanging heavily beneath his hips; he even braced his hands in front of him and arched his spine in a way he knew stoked Jaskier’s fervour. The graze of blunt nails down the contours of his back coaxed the first low moan from Geralt’s chest, and he bucked his hips forward. Jaskier whispered, “Enchanting. Do you want me, Geralt?”

“Yes, Jaskier.” The bard’s name purred; a low, illicit rumble that spoke to the very base levels of Jaskier’s instinct. It didn’t help that Geralt flicked a little glance over his shoulder, amber eyes bright in challenge, white hair falling over his face in a curtain. But he wasn’t going to rush - _oh no_ \- Geralt was the sexual equivalent of a gourmet meal and Jaskier was going to savour every bite. He smoothed his fingers through the oil in the bowl and slid his fingers down from Geralt’s tailbone to his perineum in one easy glide. “Mmph - _Jaskier_ \- yes - .” The touch stayed there - firm, persistent - teasing out the first few breathy moans, before he returned to circle his entrance. The first finger pressed into him, unhurried. Geralt growled impatiently, thrusting himself back until Jaskier sank down to his last knuckle, and then grunted when his body didn’t yield as quickly as he wanted it to.

“So impatient, wolf,” Jaskier chided, and drew his finger back to circle the tip around the rim again, returning the petulant glare he received with lips pursed in a blown kiss. “Relax. Let me take care of you. I never leave you wanting.” He wanted to take Geralt apart slowly, but even he felt a well of impatience swelling in the back of his mind. With a deep, steadying breath he added a second finger - crooking, swirling - and Geralt groaned again, rocking back into the flutter of fingertips.

"Please, Jaskier. Please. I want you in me. Properly." Growled into the rug, his fingers kneading and clenching at the fur as he rutted his hips forward in search of stimulation. A thumb pushed down his perineum again, and a slender hand wrapped his cock, easing down in light tugs that earned another low rumble, and Geralt's forehead settled on the floor. " _Jaskier."_

"Yes, my love?"

" _Please._ "

“Since you begged so sweetly,” Jaskier purred back as he thrust a third finger in; Geralt bucked forward, beautifully muscled back coiling and arching as he enjoyed the stretch. And then it was gone. He felt empty - _too empty -_ and bit back a whine as Jaskier adjusted, but shuddered in anticipation when the thick cock head pressed to his entrance. 

“ _Fuck_ , Jaskier. Will you just - ? Nnnggh. Ahh.” His belligerent demand cut off as Jaskier thrust forward and sheathed himself to the hilt in one fluid motion. Geralt felt every inch of his bard’s exquisite cock as it sunk in deep, the soft curls at Jaskier’s groin flush with the sensitive skin of his cleft. “ _Yes - Jaskier - yes, please._ ” There was no need to be quiet in his own home. No need to feel the bubbling shame he did in taverns, or hide away his desires beneath a veneer of placid indifference. He wanted Jaskier to know how much he _yearned_ , how _good_ it felt to be fucked like this by a man he loved with all of his beaten heart. “Fuck, aahh, fuck, yes.” Agile hips swaying, drawing that thick length almost all the way out before breaching Geralt again, making his body yield to the pleasure it provided.

“I love it when you’re like this. So eager - mmm, ahh - so relaxed. Want to watch you come - ahh - come undone, Geralt.” Breathless because Geralt’s body clutched at him, squeezing him needily. He gripped Geralt’s hips at first, wanting to bring him close to the brink on his cock alone, but slipped lower to his thighs; he spread them further, lifting Geralt to him with each snap of his hips to get the angle just right for -

“Ahh, Jaskier, fuck, _fuck,_ please - yes - _gods, fuck -_ .” There were only two men on the Continent who could unravel him like this. One here doing just that, the other downstairs peeling potatoes. One day he would have them both at the same time. And probably die. _It would be a really good death - oh, fuck._ Geralt moaned, wanton and free, knuckles bleaching white with the force of the grip on the furs below. His cock was hard and dribbling, the scant friction across the head against the floor enough to send the odd spark to nestle in his groin.

“Oh, Geralt, love of my life, guardian of my heart - _fuck -_ you’re so good. So good, Geralt. So hot, so tight. More beautiful than the blooms of Dol Blathanna - _fuck -_ I wish you’d let me write ballads about your beauty - nnn-aahh - that weren’t disguised in euphemism, _oh fuck,_ ” he dropped one of his thighs and slipped his hand to Geralt’s cock, fingers gripping initially at the base, before moving in swift, fluid strokes with the last traces of the oil on his fingers. “Come for me, Witcher.” 

Geralt bunched and seized, and then hit his peak with a startled gasp. For a man with impeccable control over every aspect of his body, for Jaskier to _rip_ his orgasm from him upon request was always a surprise. _A good one._ He liked it when Jaskier had that level of control… not that he’d ever _tell_ his lark that. Geralt thrust lazily through the fingers that still gripped him as his cock continued to twitch, his ass looser from his climax, but the tremors still enough for Jaskier who finished shortly after with a low, delicious moan. When he withdrew, Geralt felt the warm dribble of come down his thigh and the filthiest part of his psyche purred in triumphant pleasure. 

Jaskier slipped around to sprawl on his side, “You have _never_ been that loud,” he murmured. “Did you put it on for my benefit?”

“No,” Geralt hummed, lowering himself into a wanton sprawl; he didn’t want to be cleaned up. “Just… let it out.”

“You need to do it for Eskel. Not just his name, and breathy whispers. It’ll drive him insane. He’ll ravish you to within an inch of your life. Look how he is when Lambert gets vocal.” Jaskier stroked a hand down Geralt’s back. “Did it feel good?”

“Hm,” the Witcher tilted his head, eyes lidded. “You know it did. You’ve never been one to be coy about your prowess.”

“Oh, it’s _prowess_ now, well…” Jaskier could see Geralt drifting off to sleep. _Standard._ Eskel loved to chat, Lambert loved to cuddle and kiss… Geralt napped. “I’ll wake you for dinner. Are you comfortable?”

The soft snore told him all he needed to know.

***

Geralt and Jaskier appeared for dinner just as Vesemir was laying the plates out in the kitchen. After years of trying to observe tradition by eating in the dining room, the Witchers had finally acknowledged the futility of trying to heat an entire hall and now ate all their meals near the kitchen hearth. It saved fuel if nothing else. Eskel and Lambert were both staring at Cal, who sat in Lambert’s lap.

Jaskier glanced between them. “Is everything alright, my loves?” He slipped into a chair next to Lambert, and Geralt took up his usual position at Eskel’s side.

“They’re just processin’ what I’ve told ‘em,” Vesemir offered while placing a huge bowl of stew in the middle of the table, a ladle dumped in the middle. “I’ve discovered what our littlun is.”

“And it’s… bad news?” Jaskier wiggled his fingers at Cal, who giggled appreciatively and then began to reach for the stew bowl. Lambert tightened his grip and kept him still.

“You need to tell them,” Eskel said, finally. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Well, Caladrius isn’t just his name,” Vesemir began, seating himself at the head of the table nearest the fire. “It’s his father’s species. They’ve gone by many names through the centuries. Dhalion, Caladrius, Calandre. But they’re all the same thing.”

“Which is?” Geralt prompted. He was serving the stew, because no one else seemed interested.

“A mythical bird that we believed extinct many hundreds of years ago. It has powers of healin’ and prophecy,” Vesemir nodded his thanks and ripped himself off a chunk of the fresh bread from the centre of the table. “When healin’ someone, it’ll absorb the illness into its own body, and then fly up into the sky to disperse it into the sun. Or so the legend goes. They won’t heal the almost dead though. If the sickness has already got too far along, the bird will _look away_ as it were.”

“So, his father’s a mythical creature of healing. That’s fantastic news! Nothing dangerous at all.” 

“No,” Lambert spoke now. “Not for us. But for him, it just gets worse.”

Vesemir nodded gravely. “Aye. Caladrius birds also, according to legend, have powers of prophecy. They can see a person’s death if it’s close. And it’s said their blood can grant centuries of life. That’s probably why Lambert’s bird was in a cage; some sorcerer had caught one - potentially the last one - and was trying to extract its properties.”

“Why - oh - why are sorcerers not on your hit list of killable monsters?” Jaskier looked innocently between the four Witchers at the table. “I feel like they have earned their place more than any other beast you slay.”

“They’re human.” Geralt murmured, as if he too had considered it seriously.

“It comes down to this,” Vesemir stirred his food. “If someone were to find out what Caladrius is, they would stop at nothin’ to get hold of him. There’s a reason unicorns don’t exist anymore. People hunted ‘em for their blood, their horns… their healin’ powers. ‘Til there were none left. I’d wager that Dhalion is the last of his kind, and his son,” the old wolf indicated Cal with his spoon, “will be the end of his bloodline. They mate for life. Lambert says that Aen Seidhe woman died while he was in the room, so Dhalion’ll be in mourning for many years. Doubt we’ll see hide nor feather of him ‘til he's done.”

“So,” Jaskier tilted his head, squinting at their young pup. “Forgive my crassness, but how did a bird _create_ our beautiful Cal?”

“Some of the legends say they can adopt human form. They do it rarely though. They’re peace lovin’ creatures. Flyin’ away is probably their only form of defence.” Vesemir fell silent now, chewing thoughtfully. “He must’ve adopted humanoid form and fallen in love or somethin’. Must be lonely bein’ the only one of your kind.”

“As long as we don’t _tell_ anyone, he’ll be fine. He looks like a particularly pretty Aen Seidhe.” Jaskier could sense there was more. _Much more._ Eskel and Lambert were picking over their food rather than eating it.

“When you were singing to him the other night, our medallions reacted,” Eskel murmured. “If he’s displaying trace amounts of power now, then there’s no telling what might happen when he matures.” If Ciri was anything to go by, then his abilities could manifest themselves explosively; it would be a very difficult puberty for everyone involved. “He needs to be kept safe from the world.”

“You can’t possibly be saying what I _think_ you’re saying,” Jaskier glanced between them. “Oh, so Caladrius is to be a princess in the tower. Enshrined in Kaer Morhen for the very rest of his days. No. That will simply not do.”

“And what do you suggest?” Lambert looked up from the stew. He didn’t sound angry, on the contrary, he sounded resigned. _Desperate_ almost. “I wouldn’t wish staying in this fucking dump on anyone. One season on my own nearly killed me. I hate people, but he won’t. He’ll go mad with loneliness and boredom.”

Silence fell. Everyone picked over their food - Eskel and Lambert finally knocked back a few mouthfuls - and then Jaskier slowly lifted his gaze again. “He could stay with me. In Oxenfurt. He’ll be around _people,_ and he’ll go to school with children his own age. Surrounded by society. He’ll build connections. It’ll be fantastic.” 

“With all due respect, Buttercup,” Lambert said, which was certainly a high level of flattery considering he extended his respect to _no one._ “What’ll you do if he starts randomly healing people? Or if he sprouts wings?”

“Or if he goes into mad trances?” Eskel raised an eyebrow.

“Or starts teleporting?” Geralt added.

“Or - .” Vesemir began -

“Alright, alright. I’m not equipped to deal with the mystical on my own entirely. I could give it a good go though. Or,” Jaskier grit his teeth. _Now or never._ He had been thinking about it a lot. This _Witcher retirement_ lark. But there had never been a good time to bring it. Well, until now. “Lambert could stay with me too.”

“What?” Four voices exclaimed, incredulous.

“Lambert and Caladrius. Together. They could stay with me in Oxenfurt. At least until Caladrius is of age and can make his own decisions. Eighteen years is a blip in a Witcher’s life span, is it not?”

Another long silence followed. It was a lot to take in. Jaskier said it so _matter-of-factly_ , but he knew it was anything _but._ He was suggesting that a Witcher _abandon_ the Path. Not for good - although he could hope - but for a significant period of time. When Lambert spoke though, it wasn’t to address the concern that Jaskier expected. “You’d do that for me? Give up travelling and… barding?”

“Oh, dear heart. I can still do a little bit here and there. It’ll just mean my roots are settled with you in Oxenfurt. _You_ will have to adapt the most. I will be able to support us somewhat, but you’ll have to continue to seek work nearby. Of any kind.” Jaskier rested a palm gently over the back of Lambert’s hand. “You don’t have to make the decision now. Take some time to think about it. I’m just saying that there are options. Cal doesn’t have to be _imprisoned_ up here to protect him. _We_ can protect him, and still provide him the life he deserves.”

Lambert looked at Vesemir. It was something he never thought he’d do. Their relationship had always been fraught. But now he needed… _fuck,_ did he need permission to even consider this? His eyes cast down to his stew, and he ate a few more mouthfuls, pausing to ensure that Cal ate some of the potatoes and bread from his own pile of mush. There was a knack to eating one-handed with a child on your knee that Lambert was quickly learning. 

“It’s your decision, lad,” Vesemir didn’t need to be asked. He’d seen the look. “The Path isn’t what it used to be, and Kaer Morhen isn’t either. He’d be better mixin’ with humanity. Learnin’ their ways. If you were there to watch over him, there’d be less danger. Keepin’ him here would only breed resentment and instability.”

“Well, fuck,” Lambert huffed. “I… uh, I’ll need some time to… to think about it.”

“Aye.” Vesemir nodded in agreement.

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Once all the plates were gathered together and washed up, Geralt and Eskel played a few rounds of cards and Jaskier kept Cal entertained with Lambert. As the night drew in and Lambert finally decided it was past Cal’s bed time, he headed upstairs with Eskel on his tail. He could sense Lambert’s fidgety anxiety and didn’t want him to be alone to think himself too far into a dark rut.

“You could’ve stayed down there and played cards for longer.” Lambert remarked as they entered Eskel’s room.

“Told you, we’re in this together. Means you shouldn’t have to do - ,” Eskel indicated the cot vaguely, “ - on your own.”

“Well, since you’re here, hold him a sec’ and I’ll get him some fresh linens out.” Lambert held Cal out towards his brother who then hesitated and drew away. “What?”

“It’s - uh - don’t you think I’ll upset him?”

“What the fuck? Why?”

Eskel glanced away, hesitant, and then motioned at the side of his face. Thus far he’d left the hands on stuff to Jaskier, Lambert and Geralt; he could contribute in ways that wouldn’t give the poor kid nightmares. Lambert stared at him for a moment and then marched over. With the child between them, he leaned up and rubbed the side of his face along those scars, before finally anointing them with a brief kiss. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid.” One hand took Eskel’s arms and brought it round the front, and the baby was deposited in it. Even though Eskel was immediately tense, Lambert walked away. Easiest way to deal with Eskel’s insecurities? You gave them the proverbial boot in the ass and chucked him in at the deep end. _So sayeth the laws of Lambert._

With Cal propped in an arm, Eskel tried to tilt his face away so that the scars weren't hugely on show, but the lad seemed to have other ideas. He hadn't been held by this big, interesting man before, so those little hands extended immediately to bat at his jaw and tug at his hair (which was in dire need of a cut; he'd get Geralt to do it before they left). Not a trace of fear. Not even when Eskel had to tilt his head back to extract Cal's fingers from where they'd got tied up in one particular strand. The scarred side of his face got the same inquisitive pat as his jaw. Cal gurgled, squeaked and then giggled in amusement. Alright, so, maybe he didn't care? Or - wasn't - scared? Eskel glanced at Lambert, who was busy laying out a fresh linen to wrap Cal in before bed, and then lifted his free hand from his side. Cal immediately latched onto one of his fingers, angling it for his mouth. "I'm Eskel. I - uh - hello." Cal squealed happily when Eskel wiggled the rest of his fingers over his head, and then nommed his captive one.

"See, you're a hit. Of course you'd be the favourite, you're everyone's fucking favourite." Lambert grouched, but with an affectionate glint in his eye, as he took Cal from Eskel's arms and unwrapped the damp linen from his behind. Once he was all wrapped up again, Lambert grabbed the doll from their bed and carried it across with Cal to his cot. "There you go. Just pull this blanket over and - don't laugh at me, you're meant to be sleeping. Yeah, you, I'm talking to you, give me attitude, see, laughing again. Make you run the Trail or stuff target dummies. Yeah, I will, you watch me… you can crawl the whole thing. Uh huh." Lambert grinned as Cal squeaked and gurgled at him, then looked up to see Eskel, who had the dopiest fucking smile on his face. Brow set, Lambert grumbled. "What?"

"You're actually pretty good at this, y'know," Eskel rubbed the back of his head and peered down into the cot. "Natural, I'd say."

"Pfft," Lambert huffed, and then lifted a hand to trace the engravings in the headboard. Eskel slipped an arm around his waist and tucked his face to his neck, breathing deeply. Lambert tilted into it without hesitation as he spoke, "You forgot Quen."

"Mm, yeah. Didn't think it was necessary."

"Why?"

"We're the only shield he'll ever need."

Lambert drew in a sharp breath. The knot in his throat appeared from absolutely fucking nowhere and there were those stinging eyes again. _Holy fuck - was he getting hormonal or some shit?_ He turned to look up at Eskel's face and that knot in his throat bloomed into an odd, warm tightness in his chest. A tightness that eased into fluttery bliss when he caught that smile in a kiss. Oh yeah, he recognised it now. It was the same feeling he'd had on Beltane when Buttercup had returned his love. Uncontainable, manic, devoted, fierce… love. He loved Eskel. _Fuck did he love Eskel._ He'd told him before. But did Eskel get it? He better fucking get it. Lambert wasn't sure he could say it too much without feeling like a prick. 

The way he kissed back. It was warm, and gentle, and _so good._ So Eskel. And Lambert turned into that big chest and leaned on him, head tilting back as their tongues brushed together, strong arms encircled his back to pull him closer still. Every sense was filled to the brim with this beautiful fucking man and Lambert was happy to drown in them. Except... "Brbrbbrrr." Gurgle, squeak. 

"Oh my - you're the biggest cock block," Lambert growled down into the crib, only to receive a bit more baby babble. Those blue eyes were heavy though. With his doll clutched in his hands, Cal was quickly drifting off to sleep. "Ahh, we can't anyway, not with him in the room." His voice a whisper now.

"Can't what? Kiss?"

"No - fuck."

"Hm," Eskel tugged Lambert away and towards the bed. "Alright. But I am going to continue kissing you, if your weird and massively delayed sense of decorum can handle that."

"Yeah… yeah, we can kiss."

Geralt and Jaskier arrived an hour or so later, rosy-cheeked from wine and laughter, to find Lambert and Eskel wrapped in each other beneath the blankets. Both had never looked so peaceful.

"Geralt, I want them to have this every night. Forever." Jaskier whispered.

"Maybe one day, Jaskier."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [So Far Away and So Near](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XDZzA2EH1qw) Erutan 4:46
> 
> For those of you interested in reading some around the mythology of _the_ caladrius: [this](https://abookofcreatures.com/2015/11/02/caladrius/), [this](http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast143.htm) and [this.](https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/the-caladrius-harbinger-of-hope-or-despair/)


	6. Winter's End

“Stop trying to do fancy twirls, Buttercup, you’ll get a knife in your ass,” Lambert grumbled as he thwapped Jaskier on said ass with the flat of his blade for the fourth time. “It’s poor form,”

“All _four_ of you do it,” Jaskier blustered, sword held in one hand while the other rubbed the abused cheek of his backside. His Witchers were being _gentle_ with him, but it still stung. _They would have to kiss it better this evening. All three of them._ “Even Vesemir, and wasn’t he your _fencing_ instructor?”

“Reflexes, speed, senses,” Eskel murmured from his post on the crumbling stone wall to the left. “We know where every single one of our opponents are, and we’re able to time it effectively. Allows us to dodge arrows, bolts - .”

“- leshen vines, fiend spit, troll shit - “ Lambert added in quietly as he spun his sword impatiently around his hand.

“Don’t fight like a Witcher, Jaskier, fight like a human.” 

“Yes, well, it’s not really _fair_ if you’re allowed to do all your pretty pirouettes and rolls, and I have to fight like a courtier.” The bard huffed a sigh, and then set up opposite Lambert again. “I can’t even tell you to tuck a hand behind your back, because you bloody well fight one-handed.”

Lambert lifted his left hand anyway, waving his fingers cheekily, before tucking his fist into the small of his back. “No _pirouettes_ or rolls. I’ll fight like a Kaedweni soldier after three kegs of ale. If you get a hit in, I’ll do whatever you want tonight.”

“So _generous_ , dear heart,” Jaskier grumbled, and then set forth for the attack. They both assumed a high guard, and Jaskier cut up across Lambert’s chest, dismissed reflexively with a swift parry. He recovered, and threw a succession of overhand cuts, followed by a thrusting jab that Lambert side-stepped with a graceful swivel. To his credit, the youngest wolf never goaded or mocked when he was sparring with Jaskier - not like he did _incessantly_ with Eskel and Geralt - but maintained a passive expression; brow slightly furrowed, watching his partner’s form closely to offer feedback at the end. Despite his grouching, Jaskier appreciated their time and efforts. One was never too old for tutorlege from a master. 

Sweat gathered on Jaskier’s brow despite the crisp temperature, and he clenched his teeth against the stiffening tension in his muscles. Eskel moved from his seat and walked slowly out of Lambert’s eyeline. He lingered in his brother’s periphery, and then began to draw in close. _It was enough -_ the hit of Eskel’s scent, the intensity of his gaze and the predatory nature of his stride - it all caused Lambert to misstep. Jaskier’s blade tapped down on his shoulder as he was momentarily distracted, the sharp edge stopping shy of cutting into his skin. The Witcher growled, “Fine, I yield.”

“Excellent,” Jaskier beamed at Eskel, who raised an eyebrow. “Now, I do believe you said _whatever I want_?” 

Lambert huffed. “Yes.”

“Very well. You and Eskel shall make love this evening while I watch. Slow, sensual, with your hands bound and your eyes covered. He said you were coy about being with him with Cal in the room, so I’ll make sure Geralt has him.” Watching Lambert’s eyes widen a notch with every word was totally worth the extended exposition, and Jaskier smiled sweetly as he twirled the sword in his hand into the scabbard on his back. “Speaking of. They’ve been in the stable an awfully long time.”

“Hm. Sounds good.” Eskel _sauntered_ away - the absolute fucking _cretin_ \- and Lambert had to _readjust_ before he headed towards the stables in their wake. The doors were propped open enough for them to slip in single-file only, with Geralt conscious of the cold, but they waited _just_ outside and listened, because the White Wolf was talking softly.

“You pet the nose, just like this,” Geralt murmured; his instruction followed by a bubbling giggle from Cal. “Well done. Now, never curl your fingers near their mouth, they’ll think it’s a nice treat. Nibble you by accident. And these are so small, they’ll come off completely.” Another gurgle. The gentle amusement in Geralt’s voice no doubt accompanied by his head tilt and soft golden eyes. Jaskier didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he was desperate to _see_ his grumpiest wolf as his sunshine self, so slipped quietly inside.

Sure enough, Geralt stood with Cal clasped to his chest in one big arm, while the other covered a small, pudgy hand as it pressed to Dandelion’s velvet nose. The colt’s lips wiggled in search of a treat, but otherwise he was perfectly still as Cal petted him. Vesemir had spent time preparing Dandelion for the saddle; his trip down the trail would be the first with a passenger. Geralt’s ears twitched, and he turned to face the stable door. “Finished so soon?”

“Geralt, we’ve been training for two hours,” Eskel grinned, one hand rubbing the back of his head as he drank in the sight of his lover with his big golden eyes, and soft smile, and - _urgh, dear fucking gods, his heart ached with adoration._ “Shoulda’ known you would also be a natural.”

“Hm.” Geralt hummed in his usual Geralty way and returned to petting Dandelion for a few moments longer. Cal’s little legs kicked happily against his stomach, and they moved to Roach. The old mare leaned over the stall door with interest and Cal giggled heartily when she snuffled at him. No one had really been surprised when Geralt offered to look after Cal while they trained; his last few nights had been haunted by unsettling dreams about Ciri and the Wild Hunt. Eskel woke repeatedly to find Geralt standing by the window and staring out into the courtyard; remembering the years they spent training her and trying to find some peace in it. They’d taught her _everything_ they knew, including how to protect herself from wraiths. 

This didn’t help the wolf settle though. _When he dreamed about Ciri, it meant she was in trouble._ Helping care for Cal was going some way to manage his feelings of powerlessness, but it was only a temporary salve for a bloodied and angry wound.

“Hey, Buttercup, did Eskel ever tell you the story about how he got Scorpion?” Lambert spied his opportunity for a little bit of petty revenge; it was totally worth the extra hassle he’d get this evening. 

“No. I just assumed he was a favourable purchase.” The bard patted the stallion on the nose, and then moved across to Lambert’s gelding to distribute the fuss evenly. The Witchers’ steeds were as needy of affection as their owners.

“Do you want to enlighten him, or - ?” Lambert planted his hands on his hips and bounced on the balls of his feet. The glint of mischief in his eye was a _mirror_ of that often displayed in the set of cornflower blue oculars currently gazing at Eskel expectantly.

Eskel rolled his eyes. “You’re a git,” he sighed. “Law of surprise.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped open. Even Geralt raised an eyebrow. Lambert drawled, “The law… of surprise.”

“I told you that to make you feel better about - ,” Eskel indicated Cal, who was still happily gurgling away in Geralt’s arms, and then rubbed his eyes. “I saved a knight from some wolves. I was in a hurry and it just slipped out.”

“That’s one hell of a slip, my love.” Jaskier threw his hands up in exasperation. “Witchers. You _never_ learn.”

“Destiny’s already had a go with me and realised I was a lost cause. Figured I wouldn't be unlucky enough to draw her ire a second time,” Eskel murmured, and then indicated over his shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got more chores to get done before the sun sets.”

They headed inside. Geralt kept hold of Cal for a bit longer.

***

With Vesemir and Geralt happy to play cards with Cal bundled next to the kitchen fire, Jaskier, Eskel and Lambert headed up to bed to make good on Jaskier’s winnings. Like with all things concerning their amorous arrangement, Vesemir simply sighed and fluttered his hand dismissively. Geralt wasn’t really in the mood anyway and had only smirked at Lambert when the story had been retold to him. _Lambert dropping his guard? How very unusual._ Said Witcher was all bravado as he swaggered upstairs, only for it to completely vanish the moment two large hands slid beneath his shirt.

They bathed beforehand, mainly because Lambert had spent the rest of the day cleaning out the stables and smelled of stale hay and horse shit, so Lambert was all orange blossoms and patchouli when Eskel finally buried his face against the side of his neck. They stood at the foot of the bed, already shirtless, and Eskel felt warm and inviting against Lambert’s back. It was so easy to slip into a blissful haze under the brush of those big, gentle hands as they traced every line and curve of his torso, and Lambert leaned his head back against Eskel’s shoulder as one pressed inside his braies and cupped him. “Always so keen. Feel good in my hand.” Eskel rumbled in the silky purr he knew pooled in all the places that mattered; Lambert pressed into his palm in response and his eyes slipped closed.

Jaskier stood by the desk holding the cuffs for a moment and just _admired_ the way that Lambert dissolved so effortlessly. It hadn’t really been a forfeit; Eskel had looked truly put out when recounting his stolen opportunity the morning following Lambert’s small rejection, and Lambert didn’t _need_ an excuse to spread himself out in front of his favourite bear. With the end of winter drawing near, the wolves wanted to spend as many hours as possible wrapped in each other. Another year of separation, of worrying, of potentially losing one of their loved ones lay ahead. They wanted to love their fill before the snows melted.

Eskel and Lambert fitted together as if by design, Lambert’s hand lifting to grip the back of Eskel’s neck as wet, hungry kisses pressed down the side of his. Their bard slipped across to them and wrapped Lambert’s wrists; the metal links clicked together in front of him, with a knot of rope threaded through for good measure. Next, he shooed Eskel’s lips away long enough to wrap the collar at Lambert’s throat, and finally tied the blindfold over misty amber eyes. “Perfection.” He smoothed a thumb over Lambert’s lower lip, receiving a chaste, affectionate lick across the pad, before moving out of the way.

“Good boy.” Eskel whispered against the side of Lambert’s head before he worked the rest of their clothes away. When the comforting heat of Eskel's body vanished, Lambert whimpered, head tilted down and ears perking to try and listen for him. “Lift your arms.” Eskel murmured and then stepped back to run his eyes down the length of Lambert’s torso as he flexed and shivered in anticipation. It was a selfish indulgence, but sometimes Eskel just liked to _look._

“I can never get over how _lovely_ you all look.” Jaskier sighed, shedding his doublet and chemise before climbing onto the bed and sitting against the headboard. His breeches were straining, but he could wait. Lambert’s cock stood up so _perfectly_ , flushed and full _,_ precome glistening at the head, his balls already tight against his body. Eskel turned away and rooted through his bag for the jar of oil he’d chucked in there while packing for departure; they barely had a week left before the snows cleared and their season on the Path began. Not worth thinking about now. Not when Lambert was trussed up, needy and just fucking beautiful.

“Going to bend you forward onto the bed,” Eskel said, hands settling on Lambert’s bound wrists and the small of his back. With gentle direction, he arranged Lambert on his knees and elbows. The flush up Lambert’s chest and neck betrayed his feelings of vulnerability, and Eskel was careful to keep his touches constant. “So beautiful when you spread out for me, Lambert. Going to make you feel real good. Show you how much I love you.” He drew a finger down the arched spine in front of him, and Lambert curled more, his ass lifting slightly. His cock already hung heavily between his legs, but Eskel didn’t want to rush. Jaskier had requested _making love_ specifically, and Eskel was more than happy to oblige.

With one of his senses removed, Lambert had to focus on touch and sound to ground himself. Smell was useless; he was already flooded with musky arousal and the sweet oils on his skin, which made him feel dizzy and unfocused. The weight of Eskel sinking onto the bed behind him sent a coil of tension unspooling up his spine; he could feel the solid heat of the thick cock resting just shy of his ass and pushed up into the lazy kisses alighting down his back. “Eskel…”

There was no reply. Just the brush of hands up the outside of his spread thighs. _I'm here_. Eskel locked eyes with Jaskier just as his mouth paused at the top of Lambert’s cleft. The bard had unlaced his breeches and palmed himself now in long, languid strokes; his cheeks flushed, his blue eyes wide and adoring. “Make him moan for me, Eskel.” Said in a breathy sigh.

Eskel spread Lambert’s knees further and knelt down on the floor like a disciple worshipping at an altar. The first glide of his tongue over Lambert’s entrance sent his lover surging forward, and he took a moment to coax him back into place. “Relax. Told you I’d make you feel good.” The tight ring of muscle fluttered under the caress of his breath and Lambert whined into the blankets beneath him. When Eskel started to kiss him again, his tongue firm and insistent, Lambert moaned and canted his hips eagerly. The filthy, wet sounds of Eskel's mouth working were punctuated by breathy moans that rumbled the length of Lambert’s perineum, coiling in his balls.

The pop of a metal cap, and the soft sound of salve smearing over thick fingers, and then Eskel’s hand curled around Lambert's cock, angling it back between his legs and stroking him slowly from root to tip, palm twisting around him in a smooth glide. “ _Fuck,_ Eskel. _Ahh._ Nnngh.” He could feel saliva dripping down his balls from Eskel’s enthusiasm, and he could smell Buttercup too, hear his quiet pants as he pleasured himself. _Shit - he wasn’t going to last at all - it felt too fucking good -_

Eskel stroked himself with another palmful of salve. It melted against the heat of his skin, and his cock leapt in his grip every time Lambert let loose his name in a blissed moan. He kept working his lover until he came; his tongue still teasing around spasming muscles as his fingers smoothed through the streaks of come sputtering from the tip of Lambert’s cock. Eskel rose from the floor and shifted Lambert forward when he flopped; Jaskier squeezed the base of his own prick as he teetered on the brink of orgasm for the second time in ten minutes. Dribbles of precome slid down his shaft, and he tilted his head back into the pillows he’d sunk down into while watching Lambert squirm. "You two are so beautiful. Heavenly."

With a bashful grin, Eskel guided Lambert down onto his front and leaned over his back, settling between his splayed legs. "Hear that? Our pretty bard thinks you're beautiful. I agree. Every inch of you. You tasted so good." He teased his teeth along the hairline at the base of Lambert's neck and rested the thick length of his cock inside his cleft. As his lover’s hypersensitivity began to fade, he rolled his hips in a leisurely rut. Eskel growled into Lambert’s back, receiving a desperate whimper in return. “Going to take you nice, and slow. Want you to feel every inch of me. Would you like that?”

“Yeah, Eskel. Nnngh.” Lambert melted into the bed, his legs spread as wide as they’d go, his bound hands stretched out in front of him and his face tilted out to one of his biceps. _Gods, it felt so good._ To have Eskel’s body over him, his broad chest pressed to his back, his shaft sliding over his hole and his balls when he canted his hips _just so_ ; big, hot and heavy. Lambert ground into the bed below him in search of friction, and he could hear Jaskier’s quiet gasps as he drew close again. The cuffs, the collar, the blindfold were such simple restraints - light compared to what they'd done in the past - but he didn't need much these days to find a pleasant, hazy headspace. He wanted to be at Eskel's mercy, wanted to spread himself wide in eager, willing submission. “ _Eskel..._ ”

“Mm?”

“Please.” Breathless, spaced. Lambert tilted his face into the blankets to smother himself.

Eskel leaned to the side only briefly to take another handful of salve, smoothing his thumb against his palm until it melted into an oily slick. He slid his fingers between them, swirling the tips around Lambert’s rim, and then eased the first few inches of his cock inside. Relaxed and open, Lambert still arched with a stuttering gasp, and Eskel wound a hand around his throat to keep him there, callused fingers stroking either side of the leather collar as he pushed deeper with a satisfied rumble. “Gods, you’re always so tight, no matter how many times - hnngh.” Eskel steadied himself as Lambert clamped down, and lapped at the sweat forming in the centre of the muscled back before him.

“You all are.” Jaskier purred, and when Eskel looked at him he raised a salacious eyebrow that promised to prove the point later. Their bard looked about as wrecked and breathless as Lambert did; his cock slick and twitching, thick and flushed from where he’d been edging himself. 

Eskel ground into Lambert with slow, deep rolls of the hips; he turned his face into the side of Lambert’s neck and whispered adoration between breathy pants and groans, his free hand smoothing up a bound arm to lace through Lambert's fingers. “I love the way you give yourself to me - love the way you feel against me - going to remember this until we’re together again - .”

“Nnngh - ahh.” Filled to the brim, Lambert couldn’t muster words in reply. Every inch of him thrummed with the pleasure of Eskel's body and words; the silky hardness of Eskel’s prick sliding over his prostate with each graceful ripple of his powerful body, the press of his thick chest against the curve of Lambert's back, the soft warmth of his mouth and the squeeze of his hand around his throat. Although Eskel supported himself on his elbows and knees, there was enough weight for Lambert to enjoy being pinned. To be so thoroughly possessed by Eskel, _to be made love to_ , was a dizzying brand of ecstacy. 

The sight of his two wolves wound together, lost in each other so completely, was too much for Jaskier to resist and he fell over the edge into an orgasm that punched the air from his lungs. He threw his head into the pillows behind him and slid his fingers through his spend until his cock stopped twitching. Eskel's nostrils flared and his hips stuttered; his last thrusts were slow as he pushed himself deep into the smooth, wet heat of Lambert's body.

"Oh. _Fuck._ " Eskel moaned as he came with a surprising level of force, pulling Lambert back against him and craning for a kiss. It was sloppy and uncoordinated, but immediately followed by the seize of Lambert's body in his second orgasm of the evening. His grip on Lambert's throat loosened, and his lover slumped forward with a satisfied groan. Lambert let out a stammering gasp as Eskel withdrew, the strength of his orgasm betrayed by the amount of come that leaked down over Lambert's balls. Eskel pressed his thumb to his hole and allowed himself a moment of possessiveness. "Hm."

"Milk you dry, big guy?" Lambert bucked forward as Eskel pressed a little harder. "Mmm."

"Can't help myself." Eskel removed the blindfold and the cuffs, but left the collar and hooked his fingers through it to drag Lambert up the bed to Jaskier.

"Nary a tighter ass on the Continent," Jaskier crooned as a floppy Witcher sprawled contentedly over his legs; he petted Lambert's hair as Eskel climbed in next to them. "One day, I will watch you do this every night."

"Oof, Buttercup, I'd lose the ability to sit down." Lambert mumbled, and Eskel just grinned smugly. 

Geralt arrived an hour or so later with a dozing baby in his arms, and clambered into the bind of limbs to settle with a contented sigh. When Eskel encircled him during the night, he sprawled himself across that broad chest and its steady rise and fall kept him in an easy sleep.

*** 

The rest of the season passed in its usual relaxed manner. Cal continued to bubble and gurgle; the Witchers and their bard grew more attached with each passing day. They even worked out how to form a sling from a blanket after about an hour of experimentation and one small argument between Geralt and Lambert. From that point on Cal spent most of the day glued to the backs of one of his pack, watching them work over their shoulders with wide, curious eyes.

The snows cleared slowly, and as Morhen Valley shook off the last vestiges of its winter slumber, a black raven arrived on the window sill. They all knew what it meant, and Geralt retrieved the letter wordlessly. He sat down on the edge of Eskel’s bed to read it, with the rest of his pack lingering nearby.

* * *

_Dear friend,_

_Forgive me for not asking about your health or how you have been these last years. Time is very short. I have important news. We must meet, and soon. Ride to Willoughby, near Vizima, and don’t spare the horses - while I do eagerly await our reunion, I won’t be able to wait, eagerly or otherwise, very long._

_Your dear friend,  
Yennefer_

_P.S. I still have the unicorn._

* * *

The letter passed around several pairs of hands, and the silence just grew heavier as each of them came to the same conclusion. Predictably, it was Lambert that finally cracked under the pressure of the simmering tension. “Unicorn?” 

“Don’t ask.” Geralt grumbled, and began tying up his bags. 

“Ahh, is this like the portal over the lake thing - ?” Lambert tried for sardonic amusement, but even he couldn’t quite alleviate the weight in the room. Geralt just hummed dismissively, disappearing into himself at the prospect of leaving his loved ones behind earlier than he wanted to.

“So, that’s it then,” Eskel held the letter in steady hands, even though his heart was beating a neat rhythm against his rib cage. “You’ve been summoned.”

“It’s about Ciri.” Geralt lifted his packs onto his shoulders.

“How do you know?” Jaskier now, trying desperately to keep his voice even. It was difficult. They were due to leave in two days. He was meant to have _two more days_ with all of his wolves in one place, and he begrudged Yennefer for taking that away from him. “It doesn’t mention her.” Although the odd and pointed use of the word _‘friend’_ spoke of an interesting dynamic.

“It’s the only reason she would write.”

“Take Vesemir,” Eskel folded the letter up and held it out for Geralt to take; he kept his eyes averted. “Just in case.”

Geralt stood by Eskel’s outstretched hand. Golden eyes lifted slowly, searching for the two amber ones that refused to meet them. He reached out and took Eskel’s chin roughly as he stepped in close; his fingers smoothed up the scarred side of Eskel’s face, knowing that sensitive nerve-endings would tingle under the contact. “This is the last time.”

“Just come back to me.” The _‘in the end’_ was cut off when Geralt’s lips pressed to his, and Eskel gripped him back with a barely tempered level of desperation. Three years wasn’t enough to shake loose eighty years of pining, and Geralt didn't begrudge him the residual anxiety of losing everything he had. They all shared it. The worries about loss, and _losing._ It came with the territory. Geralt kissed each of them in turn once he'd calmed Eskel, even Lambert who initially bristled because he too was feeling rather abandoned, but he eventually melted under the stroke of Geralt's hand through his hair.

It took Vesemir an hour or so to prepare once Geralt had shown him the note. He locked up Kaer Morhen's secrets and grabbed his kit. Vizima was several weeks of riding away, and with the return journey on top of that, he wouldn't be back home for a few months. Eskel was left with the responsibility of locking the gates, and the three remaining members of the School of Wolf watched Vesemir and Geralt until the trail swallowed them.

Two days later, it was their turn. Lambert packed Cal's new belongings and his own kit, but knew he wouldn't be needing most of it this year… or… for some time. It hadn't sunk in yet. His brain was still on autopilot. It wouldn't truly feel real until he was sitting in Buttercup's quarters at the university. He would deal with it then. Whatever this weird pressure in the back of his head was. They rode the trail at Eskel's side; he curled around them all at night, cradling Cal to his chest like a big wolf monitoring a pup, and scooping the others close. Dandelion, lively and enthusiastic, handled the trail well. When the open fields of Kaedwen stretched before them, it was time to say goodbye.

"Guess I'll be the only wolf hunting for a bit." Eskel mused.

Lambert drew his gelding up close to Scorpion's side and rubbed the side of his face over Eskel's. When he pulled away, he thumped him on the shoulder. "Represent, brother."

Eskel grabbed him and pulled him back for a kiss, before looking at Jaskier. "Not sure you'll all make it to Posada this year."

Jaskier smiled gently and moved Dandelion close enough to take Eskel's hand. "We would never let you down like that," he squeezed. "And my door's always open in Oxenfurt. A visit would be greatly appreciated."

"Of course," Eskel smiled, but his eyes were… sad. Jaskier held his hand tightly, loathe to let him go, but in the end his Witcher gently pulled away and spurred Scorpion down the dusty path towards Ard Carraigh. Lambert and Jaskier watched until his broad back had disappeared, and then steered west towards the Buina Pass.


	7. Home Sweet Oxenfurt

Oxenfurt was loud. And it smelled _really_ bad. It didn’t matter in the first few weeks. Lambert was rather taken with the novelty of walking around without two swords on his back in just a shirt, jacket and trousers. No gambeson, no armour; just a knife stashed in the back of his belt. Buttercup doted on him endlessly. He had three full meals every single day, something he only ever got at Kaer Morhen; he slept a full night’s sleep _every_ night, and Caladrius was thriving.

The university’s populace adapted quickly to Lambert’s presence. Upon seeing him for the first time, the dean immediately banned him from the library archive - something about a broken, priceless, unique jam jar or some shit, _huh_ \- and told him that clothes were mandatory at all times in the corridors. _Fucking fine._ Lambert could deal with that; the _library_ was still open to him. Once the boundaries were set, and it became clear that Lambert was going to be _well-behaved_ , the university’s residents seemed to relax. _One_ Witcher was easier to deal with than _four_ , and this one carried a _baby_ everywhere and wasn’t _gnawing_ on it, so he clearly wasn’t the fierce, mutated monster they believed him to be. 

On one particularly memorable evening, Jaskier and Lambert were in the baths with Caladrius shared between them; Lambert was trying to teach him how to swim, but Cal was more interested in flailing, splashing Jaskier, and giggling when the bard spluttered theatrically. As he pulled Cal back into his lap to wash his hair, Lambert heard hushed giggling nearby. Keen ears quirked along with his hackles, and he looked up with a witty riposte all ready to go. The three demure sets of eyes that watched them from behind a screen were anything _but_ mocking. He looked away quickly. “Buttercup.”

“Yes, my love.”

“I think those three women are interested in you.”

Jaskier looked up lazily, arms splayed across the edge of the bath, and then smirked. “Ahh, my dear Witcher. I think you’ll find they’re interested in _you._ ”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid, they’re - ,” he glanced up again, amber eyes wide, and they whispered behind their hands, expressions bright and adoring. “Oh, shit.” Lambert was glad the water was hot and thus his skin a nice rosy pink, otherwise he would have single-handedly destroyed the carefully curated rumour that Witchers did not blush or feel embarrassment. After that, the three young women - daughters of some the academics, it turns out - were quite smitten with both Cal and his Witcher, and sometimes visited Jaskier’s room to ask whether they could take him out into the courtyard. Lambert supervised closely the first three times, and then left them to it. Cal enjoyed their company.

One afternoon, he came back from scouting the noticeboards to find a pile of clothes on the end of the bed; Buttercup sat at his desk, hastily scribbling a letter, but looked up when the door clicked closed.

“Welcome back. Did you have any luck?” 

“There’s a report of something big and fucking ugly eating cattle a few miles away, thought I’d go and check it out - uh - ,” he glanced at Caladrius, who sat happily playing with a set of wooden blocks on the rug by the gated fireplace, “if that’s alright?” Lambert still wasn’t quite sure about the parameters of the arrangement; the logical part of him realised that Jaskier was happy to look after the pup while he was away, but the niggling asshole part of his mind still worried that it was a burden Buttercup did not deserve.

“Of course,” Jaskier grinned, and then left his desk chair. “Here. Can you try these on for me? I gave my tailor one of your shirts and he made some new ones up. I noticed you ripped quite a few of your old ones up for Cal, so - well, I hope you don’t mind. I went with red, black and white. I’ve never seen you wear grey like Eskel.” He stood at the foot of the bed with his hands planted on his hips and his Witcher joined him tentatively. “I would have got you some new braies and trousers too, but I think it would be safer to have you measured.”

Lambert blinked down at the offering. “Uh -,” he picked up one of the shirts and felt it between finger and thumb. The linen was _soft._ A stark contrast to the rough, starchy fabric of his usual fare, and he noted the fit had been slightly tapered. There were no outlandish ruffles or patterns; Buttercup’s tailor had imitated his usual style, with a few refinements to make the stitching tidier. “- I, uh, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

“How much do you - ?” Jaskier raised a brow. “Oh, dear heart. Don’t be so silly. Besides, you haven’t even seen the _best_ bit. Look.” He moved a couple of the shirts out of the way and pulled up a little set of clothes; doublet and breeches. They were a deep, sapphire blue with silver accenting. The fastenings were nowhere near as intricate as Jaskier’s wardrobe; they’d been made with a small child and its myriad of excretions in mind. “For Cal! He’s going to look so precious.”

As if on cue, their child gurgled merrily and chucked a block across the floor, little hands smacking together in triumph at the _devastation_ he had wrought. _Oh fuck, he was going to be a nightmare when he could walk_. Lambert grinned, “Huh. Have you put them on him yet?”

“No, I wanted to make sure you were alright with them, I didn’t - .”

Lambert took Jaskier by the chin and tilted his head up, forcing those cornflower blue eyes to meet his. “I love them, Buttercup. Thank you.” The kiss that followed lasted a bit longer than intended, but Lambert couldn’t help himself; the moment Jaskier’s lips parted and a happy sigh escaped them, he brushed his tongue into his mouth and pulled him close. _This was the best bit._ Every day he came home and Buttercup was waiting. No hasty tumbles on a bed roll in the middle of nowhere, or stolen kisses when saying goodbye; he climbed into that bed every night and fell asleep with his bard clutched close to his chest. _If only Eskel and Geralt were wrapped around the outside as they should be._

With a sheepish smile, Jaskier drew away and carried the little doublet and breeches across to the rug. Cal bubbled at him in delight - he was _very_ attached to Jaskier - and those little hands dropped the blocks in favour of grasping at the air. “Oh, yes, would you like to try these on? I think you would. They complement your eyes, you see. And that beautiful blonde hair. You know, we should get it cut at some point. As beautiful as these curls are, we need to strengthen it. _Then_ you can grow it long and luscious. Men and women will drop at your feet, young Caladrius.” Buttercup cooed and hummed at Cal as he stripped off his one piece grow and wrestled him into the little breeches and doublet. Dextrous bardic hands were clearly _built_ for this kind of thing, because Jaskier lifted Cal from the rug and presented him to Lambert in record time. “Magnificent.” 

Cal’s eyes scrunched and he let out a high-pitched laugh as he saw Lambert, arms out. The Witcher considered him with a tilted head, and then dutifully stepped forward now that he’d been summoned. “Brushes up well.” He took his son in his hands and carried him away towards the window to inspect the streets below. A wolf showing his pup the lie of the land. Jaskier’s heart hummed in glorious adoration when he saw Lambert press a kiss to Cal’s forehead; the pretty little cherub scrubbed a hand through Lambert’s beard and bubbled away happily as he inspected all the pretty colours in the world outside.

***

Yes. The first few weeks were fine. But as _a few weeks_ became _a few months_ , Lambert began to _struggle._ It started as a crawling just underneath his skin; a constant, niggling discomfort. Everything was too bright, too _loud._ Humans _stank._ It wasn’t just the permanent undertone of excrement in the streets either, but their general odour. He couldn’t walk through the city without the glares and muttered curses; it was easy to deal with when out on the Path. You were focused on the job, and you were never around them that long, but here it was a constant diatribe that ate its way permanently into his consciousness.

Everything they did created an _imprint_ on Lambert’s senses. 

When he returned to Jaskier’s quarters at the end of the day, he often felt exhausted and overwhelmed. Once or twice he had to abandon the room because Cal was _laughing._ He _loved_ it when Cal laughed, but the sound bit through his head like a knife across his skin. He hid it from Buttercup, pretended he’d _forgotten_ something, just said he was tired from a hunt. Buttercup still gave him that worried wrinkle of the brow, but didn’t press.

He couldn’t even _brawl_ to get it out of his system, because _brawling_ and then having to stay in the town would mean an _arrest._ An arrest would mean a _fine._ And then the watchmen would be all over his ass; more so than they were currently. He got stopped and questioned so much already. Radovid’s zealous hatred of non-humans was filtering down rapidly through the rank and file of his institutions. _Radovid could go fuck himself._ One day someone would hopefully stick a knife in him and do everyone a favour.

In desperation one day, Lambert found himself outside a rundown shack in the middle of the ass-end of nowhere. Said shack contained a witch and, with a little bit of research and asking around, Lambert had learned she dealt specifically with _hiding_ mutations and dulling senses. _Perfect._ He wasn’t _stupid_ enough to believe it would be permenant. But even a brief reprieve would give him some sanity. 

He adjusted his sword belts and knocked. Sorcerers he despised. Pellars, hedge witches; they were slightly more palatable. She greeted him with a withering scowl, her grey skin sagging from her jowls, her eyes a misty, unseeing blue, her hair bedraggled and rat-brown, but once he explained his circumstances she named her price.

_Forktail ingredients. Fuck sake._

It took him a week to find one of the drakes. A small nest just south of Novigrad, and he baited it using a sheep purchased from a local farmer. It was nice to exercise his skill, and he brought the beast down with only a few minor scrapes. Eyes, scales, blood and the heart. He set the rest of it on fire and returned to his witch. 

She handed him a flask. “Pour this into your eyes. They will return to their natural colour. Drink it, and your sense of smell will be dulled.”

“What of my hearing?”

“Hmm. More complex. It would need a second tincture. Work with this one first.”

Lambert growled. “If this fucks me up, I know where you live.”

She laughed. A high-pitched, cawing sound reminiscent of a raven. “Oh, Witcher. You are welcome any time. It will be painful. Agony, in fact. But it will work.”

Now, an uncharitable reader might argue that Lambert _should’ve known better._ What happened next was a punishment of his own making; he’d had ample opportunity to learn this lesson, but had still committed the same error. _And yet,_ he was just so fucking desperate. For a man used to the sanctity of the wilderness, the simplicity of walking the Path, Oxenfurt was a veritable torture chamber. He just needed _something_ to take the edge off. To _dull_ the pain.

Jaskier walked down the corridor that evening having finished one of his guest lectures. They were always well attended, whether he was discussing political intrigue or musical theory, and the rapt attention of an enamoured audience fed his carefully cultivated ego. His pleasant feelings of contentment were shattered however when the sound of a crying infant and shattering glass travelled down the corridor. _From his room._ He broke into a sprint - surely Lambert hadn’t left Caladrius unattended, perhaps someone had broken in, dear Melitele - and flung the door open.

“Lambert!” Jaskier cried out, because his Witcher was on his knees with his hands clutched to his face. A broken alchemy flask rested nearby, but Caladrius was sitting up on the bed in a nest of pillows. His cries of distress were directed at the sight of his father crumpled on the floor. Jaskier threw the door closed behind him and fell to his knees in front of his Witcher; _blood_ dripped between his fingers. “What’s wrong - ? What - ?” He glanced again at the alchemy flask; it really didn’t take much to piece together what had transpired. “What have you _done_?”

“Jaskier, it hurts, it hurts _so much_ ,” Lambert wheezed, his fingers pushing into his eyes to try and stifle the burn. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Let me see, let me see,” Jaskier grabbed Lambert’s wrists and pulled at them until the Witcher’s shaking hands left his eyes; he did well to stifle his gasp. Beautiful amber eyes were weeping blood; tendrils of red spidered through white, and the rich golden colour was broken with segments of brown. “Why? Why have you mutilated yourself like this?” Voice pained, Jaskier left Lambert’s side and dashed to grab the fresh drinking water from the cabinet near the door. He doused his washcloth and grabbed Lambert by the shirt. “Lay down, lay on my lap. Let me - let me wash them out.” Caladrius’ cries had simmered down to the odd distressed mewl punctuated by a hiccup, but he still watched with wide, fearful eyes. “It’s alright, my love. Pa is fine. I’m just bathing his eyes, see, like I bathe your face, hm.”

“ _Sing to him._ ” Voice ragged, Lambert huffed in deep breaths, using all of his willpower to keep his eyes open as Jaskier dripped water into them and wiped away the residual reddened fluid that dripped out. 

“I will sing to him, Witcher. And then you have some explaining to do,” Jaskier bit out. Despite his anger, he cradled Lambert’s head tenderly in his lap, rinsing the cloth every couple of strokes to dilute whatever monstrous decoction Lambert had poured into his eyes. The song was difficult to find in the mire of his distress, but eventually he managed to conjure one. “ _I dream, dream of a distant shore, where we - we could be all alone, and no one would know. But I - I am a captured bird, I cry, cry for the pain endured, for I’m in love with you,_ ” Jaskier’s tenor trembled, his heart hammering. “ _You are the ocean, and I am the shore line, nothing can keep us apart. Your love consumes me, all fear eludes me, I’d die to be close to your heart._ ”

The blood stopped, and Lambert’s eyes began to clear, but amber was still streaked in dark brown. Jaskier stroked his fingers over Lambert’s brow as the Witcher’s heartbeat began to slow again, the panic receding. “ _Oh we - we lie side by side, like trees, two trees intertwined, together this night. Oh, I - I have a secret love, we hide - hide from the jealous sun, until soldiers come,_ ” he rested his hand over Lambert’s chest. “ _Until the soldiers come._ ” Cal had stopped crying and watched them silently. “Tell me what you just tried to do to yourself, Lambert.”

A long moment of silence followed, and Lambert stared up at the ceiling. It was fuzzy. “Dull my eyes.”

“ _Why?”_ Desperate, incredulous _hurt_ shivered through Jaskier’s tone. How could one of his wolves want to destroy their beautiful eyes? Golden, like the sun; enchanting, ethereal. 

“I - I can’t do this, Buttercup. Everything’s _too much._ The - the city, and the people. It’s like someone has turned the world up in volume, and I - ,” Lambert swallowed, “I just needed some peace.”

Jaskier’s lip trembled and he stroked his fingers through Lambert’s hair. He’d known. _Of course he had._ And yet, he’d been foolish enough to _wait_ for Lambert to talk to him, as he did with everything, rather than offer a solution. “Foolish wolf,” Jaskier growled. “Even after all this time, you - .” He drew in a long, deep sigh. Now was not the time for a lecture. They sat in silence together; Jaskier ran his hands over Lambert’s face, his neck, his chest - anywhere that he could reach - and the Witcher stayed perfectly still throughout. An easy calm settled over him, despite the sting in his eyes. When Jaskier spoke again, his voice was soft, “Do you remember how you used to feel when you arrived at Kaer Morhen during the winter?”

“Shit,” Lambert murmured, succinctly, and then when he saw one elegantly arched brow, “like I had too much inside my head and chest. Like I was about to - .” He trailed off.

“Mmhm,” Jaskier allowed the realisation to settle in. “And how did Eskel and I help you with that?”

A light flush rose up Lambert’s neck. “You, uh - well, there was the rope, and the collar, and I just - Buttercup, we can’t do that, not with - .”

“It wasn’t the sex that brought you the peace, Lambert. That was a nice conclusion. It was the act of being bound, of being held, and controlled. _That_ was the important part that allowed your mind to ease. Will you let me try? I can ask one of your admirers to look after Cal for an afternoon, or an evening.” If someone had told him about five years ago that Witchers could be _coy_ , he would’ve laughed in that person’s face and presented Geralt as evidence exhibit number one.

Lambert huffed. “You mean _Cal’s_ admirers.”

“Your staggering issues of confidence aside, will you let me try it? I think I will be able to do it in such a way as to help you find some peace,” he drew a thumb down the soft skin beside Lambert’s eye. “And you won’t have to _maim_ yourself to achieve it. Never do something like this again, Lambert. Promise me. Your beautiful eyes, I - .”

“Alright, alright,” he closed his eyes, and then blinked rapidly through the sting. “We’ll try it.”

“And the maiming?” Jaskier laboured the point, because the vow hadn’t been made.

“No maiming.”

“Good. That’s settled then. I’ll make arrangements.”

***

With Cal on a dinner date with his three young admirers - only in the courtyard, so not far - Jaskier set out the items he’d procured for Lambert. His stress was all sensory, so the quality of the materials was important. Soft braies in red, because Lambert associated that colour with comfort and rest, a silken blindfold and smooth-surfaced ear plugs; the candles dotted around the room were basically unscented by human standards, but he’d been around Witchers long enough to gauge their tolerance well. Sight, smell, sound and touch all accounted for. When Lambert stepped through the door after his bath, the candles were lit and their musky scent already permeated the atmosphere of the room. Jaskier watched his nostrils flare as he snuffled at the unfamiliar smell, and then smiled when a twitch of the lips accepted it as pleasant.

“Is Cal alright? Did they take his doll? I hope they’re not going to try and feed him too much fucking red meat, it really doesn’t -.” Lambert was immediately hushed by a finger over his lips; Jaskier took him by the hand and pulled him over to the bed.

“Put these on, and then kneel when you’re ready. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m - I’m all good. Is that my - uh, collar?” He didn’t remember packing it.

“It is,” Jaskier grinned, roguish. “I had rather hoped, but, umm, you hadn’t really mentioned anything, so I just kept it tucked away.” That was _definitely_ a purr, and it was the first thing Lambert plucked from the mattress. Jaskier stepped back and left him to change out of his clothes, using the opportunity to stoke the fire and unwind the three coils of rope he’d procured for the job. Undressing down to his small clothes, he watched his Witcher stand bare for a moment - _dear Melitele, they were all so sculpted, and pert, and Lambert was getting a little thick in the thighs and ass because he was eating, and Jaskier just, he couldn’t contain himself, and oh dear, now he was already semi-hard, unhelpful -_ stroking his hands over the soft material of the braies, before eventually pulling them on. “Feel nice?”

“Yeah. Don’t think my cock has ever felt something so silky. Well, apart from - .” Lambert cast a lecherous little wink over his shoulder as he climbed onto the bed, and Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle. _Apart from - wink - indeed._

“Alright. All the usual rules apply. Are you ready?”

“Yeah. Ready.” 

Jaskier placed the rope down on the bed, and picked up the ear plugs first. He took one of Lambert’s hands and ran his fingers across them so that he could feel their texture, before carefully placing them in his ears until he met the first bit of resistance. “Good, or more?” 

“Good.” Everything was muffled. Lambert could no longer hear the couple fucking two rooms away, the traffic outside, or even Buttercup’s heartbeat. So far so good.

Next, Jaskier lifted the blindfold. Again he brushed the material over Lambert’s fingers, watching those beautiful amber eyes that were finally returning to normal as dark pupils expanded. It was almost a shame to cover them, Jaskier thought, as he tied the knot of silk behind Lambert’s head. He gave the Witcher a moment to readjust without the contact of his hands. When he did brush his fingers down the chiselled chest in front of him, tips fluttering through downy black hair, goosebumps erupted in their wake. “You’re so beautiful.” Lambert couldn’t hear him. He might hear a muffled few words. But that didn’t matter. Jaskier couldn’t help but worship his Witchers; in song, in spoken word, in his dreams.

The blindfold. The earplugs. The soft braies. It was… _nice._ Lambert already felt calm. The cutting sharpness of the world had been blunted, and the soft caress of Buttercup’s hands sent shivers of pleasure across the surface of his skin. The final ingredient brushed over his palms next; the rope. Buttercup was showing him each step before they took it together; it stoked the anticipation, immersed him in the process, and everything outside of the room became more distant. He moved his arms when they were guided behind his back. The position was familiar. One on top of the other. The familiarity was soothing. Like putting on a comfortable pair of boots, or sliding into your own - well, Eskel’s - bed at Kaer Morhen. Safe, _known._

Buttercup followed the lines of his body expertly. The pressure of the knots fell in all the right places - down his spine, at the side of his wrists, in the centre of his chest - and slowly he felt the cradle of the ropes contain him. The harness went further than it usually did though; the rope passed between his legs twice, settling in the crease of each thigh, before binding his legs. Buttercup leaned in close; Lambert could smell the floral lotions on his skin and his own deep, heady musk beneath that. He breathed it in deeply and leaned into the warmth of his lover’s body behind him.

By the time the knots finished at his ankles, both thighs were bound to his calves, but left them comfortably spread in a wide stance. Lambert felt the brush of the slack rope pass back over his ass to connect with the knots at his wrists, a taut pillar to keep him in place, and then Buttercup’s hands were gone.

The ropes were pleasantly tight. Lambert could feel them pressing into the curvature of his body everytime he flexed; he adjusted his shoulders and felt the tug between his legs and - _oh fuck, that was good._ The soft material of the braies slid over his cock, the ties ensuring the contact was pronounced, and he tilted his chin down to focus on the sensation. The world was muted as Buttercup had promised. He could hear his own heart - slow, rhythmic - and his deep inhalations matched it. With every breath he let out, more tension evaporated, replaced by a faint hum of bliss. 

_Blessed peace._

Why had he not thought of - ? Why had he - ? _Fuck, his brain wasn’t working._ Fine. It was fine. Buttercup was near. His scent was still there. With only touch and smell to focus on, Lambert’s entire world was his bard and the rope against his skin. When soft hands brushed over his shoulders, he straightened with a gasp. Jaskier nudged Lambert’s knees further apart and pushed in close. “Jaskier - .” Lambert whispered his name with adoration and tilted his head back against his shoulder. Slender fingers slid around his throat, and then down to his collarbone; tender, overwhelming caresses that left behind a tingling pleasure even after they’d moved on. Soft lips pressed to the slope of his neck, and Jaskier worked over his torso. This wasn’t teasing - not the usual flutters of mischievous fingertips stirring him to beg - but firm, grounding. He leaned into them and let out his first breathy moan when Jaskier’s explorations pushed into the creases of his abdomen.

It continued like that for - it must have been hours. Lambert wasn’t sure. Time was of no consequence. He lost himself in the warm, muted paradise of being completely adrift. The only thing that anchored him to reality was the touch of nimble fingers as they sought out all of the points that made him sigh with abandon. It would’ve been enough. It _was_ enough. It didn’t matter that he was hard. Jaskier was right. It was the act of letting go, the knowledge that someone else was carrying his portion of the world for the moment. But Buttercup hadn’t _touched_ him like this in a while, and beneath the bouquet of sweet flowers, Lambert could smell the musky undertones of arousal. It stoked a heat deep in his belly and he hummed in appreciation when his lover’s hands pushed down the length of his cock, smoothing the silk of the braies over flushed skin. “Ahh.”

He heard Buttercup’s voice, a deep vibration against the side of his neck. “Let go, Lambert. I’ve got you.” 

Firm fingers pressed between his legs, squeezing his balls softly in an undulating rhythm that accompanied the rub of Jaskier’s palm down his shaft. _Oh fuck, was he going to come from this?_ Jaskier’s thumb moved over the head of his cock in firm, wide circles and Lambert could feel the wetness of precome spreading through the material. The smooth glide of the silk felt illicit and Lambert spread his knees a little further; Jaskier’s movements become broad and slow, sweeping over his head and across his balls in an easy glide that edged Lambert closer to an orgasm he hadn’t even noticed was building. One palm slipped back up his chest, brushing the lines between skin and rope until it tightened around his throat, pressing the leather of the collar into his neck. He couldn’t hear the usual slurry of praise that made him glow, but he could _feel_ the hums of appreciation against his back, and the tugs at his bindings reminded him who controlled his every movement, his every breath.

 _He wanted Jaskier inside too._ But he didn’t want to disturb the peace - the balance - he wanted to stay _like this._ As if Buttercup could somehow read his fucking mind, a finger brushed over his lower lip and then slipped into his mouth. Lambert lapped at it eagerly until it was joined by a second at which point he sucked them down to the final knuckle, his tongue rippling between them, encouraging them to stretch his lips. Jaskier dipped his other hand inside Lambert’s braies and pulled his cock free; he shifted the foreskin over his head and spread the liberal amounts of precome over velvet skin. With Lambert’s head pinned back against his shoulders, he pushed a third finger into his mouth and palmed his cock in firm, indulgent strokes.

Overwhelmed by Jaskier’s scent, the taste of his skin and his touch, Lambert came with a low groan. His cock pulsed forcefully in Jaskier’s hand, and that smooth palm with its accenting lute calluses kept working him until lights exploded behind Lambert's eyes and his body quivered against Jaskier’s chest. He _felt_ rather than heard the words ‘good boy’ as Jaskier murmured them against his neck. The three fingers filling his mouth withdrew, a gentle thumb brushing the saliva from his lower lip and chin. Jaskier tucked his prick away, the silk cool against his flushed skin, and then held him.

His bard was strong; his muscles were sinuous and athletic, but firm at Lambert’s back. The Witcher melted against him, assured that his lover would keep him stable. At some point he must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was stretching out across the linen sheets of the bed. The sun had set. The room was dimly lit by the scented candles that had burned low. The ear plugs were gone, so Lambert could hear the gentle, melodic inflections of Jaskier’s voice. He shifted only slightly, enough to be able to see the fireplace. Jaskier sat with Cal in his lap and a large, leather bound book open before them. 

“And then, the mighty Witcher slew the - ,” Jaskier paused, “well, actually, this fairytale is rather problematic, my dear. Witchers don’t kill dragons. Knights do, because knights are clueless courtesans, minions of political intrigue, trying to win the favour of a narrow-minded king. The princess doesn’t even have a choice. She can’t give her consent. We need to adjust this fairytale. Let me start again - ,” Jaskier cleared his throat, “ - the mighty Witcher protected the precious dragon from the evils of mankind. Our golden-eyed hero fought off the knights who sought to rip her scales from her, and break the eggs that cradled her babies. And once the dragon was safe, and the knights packed off home, the noble Witcher frees the princess and hands her a sword, for she should not be forced along a path she does not wish to take. The Witcher knows much about choice and the importance of making them for yourself.”

Lambert smiled and drifted off to sleep. _He liked this fairytale a lot._

***

The new _system_ worked. Lambert liked to think of it as a system, whereas Jaskier regarded it for what it _actually_ was; the act of caring for his lover when he was overwhelmed. Witcher maintenance was a delicate and involved process, but Jaskier enjoyed every moment of it. He tended to Lambert’s sensory overload weekly. Often all his Witcher wanted to do was kneel bound at his feet - the world muted with the earplugs and blindfold - and doze against his leg, gentle fingers combing through his hair. Sometimes he wanted more, much more, and Jaskier spent one memorable evening teasing out multiple orgasms until Lambert was nothing more than a purring lump of bliss.

Their unwitting accomplices were happy to spend time with Cal. It was good. Healthy. Their son - for Jaskier had now fully cemented their little birdling in his heart as _his_ son too - needed to interact with other people. The more diverse and interesting the better. They were also very good for Lambert’s self-esteem, because every time they saw him with Cal - holding him, talking to him, feeding him - they giggled and fanned themselves.

The Witcher huffed one afternoon. “Why do they keep fucking _giggling_ though? Like, do I have shit on my face, or - ?”

“Young ladies feel a wealth of strong, pleasant, warm, fuzzy emotions when confronted with such a handsome visage as yours. They giggle to express it in a safe, demure manner that is acceptable to their peers, and their own sense of decorum. Chaste, innocent, yet expressive.” Jaskier grinned and placed his lute to the side. “You should be flattered. They’ve completely restructured their expectations of life after knowing you for a couple of months.”

“How so?”

“Well, rather than Prince Charming in gleaming silver armour, with flowing blonde hair and courtly manners, they seek a dashing rogue, replete with rough and ready attitude and mannerisms, but a heart and eyes of pure gold. Seeing you with Caladrius has rather destroyed your monstrous reputation in the eyes of your three young admirers.” 

“Right -,” Lambert coughed, and scrubbed a hand over the back of his head. “So, they - uh - they fancy me?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

From that conversation onwards, Lambert started smiling at them, and Jaskier was quite certain he saw all three of them legitimately _swoon_ on several occasions. _Ahh yes, dear hearts, and I have_ **_three_ ** _of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [Souls Intertwined](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hbdy4ZQLfnA) Karliene 3:24


	8. Inheritance

The news reached Jaskier during a lecture. A student arrived just as he was expanding on the use of dissonance to create tension during a ballad and took up a seat at the back. _Not unusual._ Timetables were more of a _suggestion_ at Oxenfurt Academy; Jaskier could count on one hand the number of occasions he’d actually been on time during his studies. However, _this_ was different. A ripple of sound travelled forward from that single point of origin; a chorus of whispers that slowly increased in volume until he stopped with an irritable huff. “What, pray tell, is more important than the instruction of a master bard?” He pinned one of the students in the front row with a contemptible glare.

“Sorry, sir. It’s - ,” the man’s eyes were wide, fearful, “ - it’s Radovid, sir. King Radovid has been assassinated.”

The rest of the day passed in a haze of gossip and disbelief. By the time Jaskier arrived in his university room, he felt both bewildered and exhausted. He needed more information - more than just frantic hearsay swapped between anxious academics - but who did he write to first? A heavy sigh erupted through his nose as he realised there was only one man who’d have any worthwhile news: _Djikstra._

Lambert arrived home just as he was signing off his letter, with Cal tucked under his arm. His Witcher had made a concerted effort to find work _outside_ his vocation, and one of the local blacksmiths had taken a chance on him; he had a talent for metalwork and could light the furnaces in the morning with a flick of his hand. As long as Lambert didn’t _look_ at customers and kept his medallion tucked in his shirt, there was a steady, reliable income for him. _He hated it._ While they were both working, their three young admirers were looking after Cal and, when they weren’t available, Lambert took him to the forge and sat him inside a little pen with wooden blocks, furs and other tactile things for him to play with.

Jaskier turned in his chair to watch him place Cal down on the rug before the fireplace. “I take it you’ve heard the news.”

“Oh yeah,” Lambert smirked. “Dreams really do come true, turns out. As long as they’re bloody and inconvenient to entire kingdoms.” 

“Inconvenient is one word for it,” Jaskier chucked his quill down onto the desk, ignoring the spots of black ink that spattered across the worn, knotted wood. “The entire academy is in uproar. It’s as if Nilfgaard are already knocking on the front doors, weapons drawn. People are talking about the burning of Tretogor as if it’s already a foregone conclusion.”

“Might be an improvement.” Lambert growled as he threw himself down into an armchair, limbs sprawled out as he considered the wall opposite. “Kings come and go, Buttercup. The world keeps turning.”

“Yes, well, for those that operate _outside_ the world, perhaps it’s not so much an issue, however,” Jaskier rolled to his feet, grimacing briefly as his stiff back gave a little pang of protest, and sauntered over to ruffle a hand through Lambert’s hair, “you and Cal are now _of_ the world. It’s best that you mark events that change it so dramatically.”

Lambert’s head lolled to the side, one eyebrow raised. “Consider it marked. Now, have you got any more mead left?” 

“Yes,” Jaskier lifted his hand away from Lambert’s head and stared down at the layer of soot and miscellaneous forge debris on it, “but first, you need to go and have a bath. You’ve brought your work home with you. Sometimes my life feels like an endless cycle of patching up, feeding and bathing grotty, feral Witchers.” He wiped the offending soot onto Lambert’s grey shirt. _It used to be white._

“Hm,” Lambert stood and grabbed a towel from the cupboard. “Ever regret it? The life you chose.”

Jaskier smiled. “Not for a second.”

Feeling particularly mischievous, Lambert swaggered his way up to Jaskier and took his chin. “Good.” A brief pause followed - enough time for Jaskier to see the delinquent little glint in Lambert’s eye - and then the Witcher nuzzled into him, covering his doublet, face and neck in blacksmith _debris._ When the bard blustered, batting and swiping in protest, Lambert spread his arms and backed towards the door. “Grotty and feral. You said it yourself.”

“Vagabond.” Jaskier huffed, but couldn’t help but smile at the little wink he received as Lambert stepped out into the hall.

***

_Djikstra was dead._

The eyes and ears of the kingdom whispered one name. _White Wolf._

“Oh, Geralt. What’ve you done?” Jaskier stared down at the letter in his hand that confirmed the hearsay he’d picked up along his usual communication lines. Radovid was the last bastion of resistance and leadership in the north. As loathsome and horrid as he was, without him the northern kingdoms didn’t stand a chance against the unstoppable tide of Nilfgaard. However, at least there had been _Djikstra_ , the king in the shadows. Under his leadership, Redania might - _might -_ have been able to fight on. His wolf must’ve had a reason. Geralt didn’t _murder._ He defended, liberated and sometimes, when destiny demanded it, executed with a heavy heart.

_Was it an execution then?_

As the sun set, Jaskier’s lute remained untouched and he returned to the letter to read the report a handful of times. Cal slept soundly in his cot and Lambert was out clearing up a nekker nest for a nearby village, so he wasn’t expecting the heavy knock on the door. “Look, it’s rather late. If you wanted to submit a paper you needed to -,” his eyes widened, “- _Eskel._ ” Without pause, he threw himself into his Witcher’s arms and pulled him tight. It didn’t matter that he was covered in _weeks’_ worth of sweat and grime, because when Jaskier’s arms tightened he could feel how much _smaller_ his Witcher had become since winter. 

“Urf, Jaskier. Let me over the threshold first.” Eskel rumbled, his voice edged in fatigue despite his valiant attempt at gentle amusement. 

“Oh, yes, yes, of course. Give me your bag.” 

“Where’s Lambert?” Eskel closed the door behind him and wandered over to the crib containing their sleeping pup. Cal snuffled and kicked the blanket away in his sleep, but otherwise remained undisturbed. 

“On a contract, he should be back home tomorrow at the latest, I - you look exhausted and we haven’t even reached _midsummer_ yet.” Jaskier placed Eskel’s bag carefully next to the desk; he’d send the clothes inside off to be laundered first thing tomorrow morning.

“The Continent is a different beast during war time,” Eskel dropped his swords from his back and propped them up next to the fireplace. “I’ve been chased by soldiers three times. Once they almost caught up with me. Battlefields mean necrophages, bad deaths and unfinished business mean wraiths. Oh, and there’s a rumour that a Witcher killed the king of Redania, so that’s going well for me. Every contractor eyes me like I might be the fucking Kingslayer Round Two.”

Jaskier walked over as Eskel stood by the fire - small, low, as it was becoming quite warm at night - and began to gently unpick the buttons of his gambeson. “There’s no proof of _a_ Witcher’s involvement.”

“Since when does prejudice need proof?” He bit it out more aggressively than he intended and immediately looked affronted by himself. “Jaskier, I’m - sorry - I - .” Sometimes it became just a bit too much; to nearly have your head torn off by an arachas only for that village to hurl abuse at you and the alderman to pay you half the agreed amount. Eskel’s usual resigned acceptance burned away by a flare of indignant anger that had his fists and jaw clenching. That didn’t excuse his tone with Jaskier, of course, and he ran a hand down the rivers of scars on the right side of his face in discomfort.

Jaskier guided that anxious hand away and placed a kiss on Eskel’s knuckles despite the smear of _something_ across them. “Easy, my love. I know. It’s alright,” he smiled. “When you run with wolves, you must expect them to growl sometimes, especially when they’re tired. There we are - well, I think we need to get you some new shirts as well.” As the gambeson fell away, Jaskier was met with the sight of Eskel’s slapdash needlework and some seriously suspect stains on his trademark grey shirt. “I fear that might not be salvageable even for the brilliant women at the laundress.” 

“I’ll, uh - yeah, I might have some coin somewhere. I’m going to head for a bath.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure there’s some food waiting for you.” 

After a little bit of searching, Jaskier managed to find a young porter willing to make a quick dash across to a nearby tavern in return for a tip. The stew he brought back was as palatable as they were going to find at this time of night. Cal stirred briefly, but a softly sung lullaby soon helped him drift back to sleep again; he was getting better at dealing with Lambert’s absence. The linen dolls Vesemir had made that winter were still clutched constantly to his little chest, and Jaskier reached in to carefully move it away from his face.

Eskel returned not half an hour later looking a little brighter and _a lot_ cleaner. His hair now hung in individual strands rather than rat-tailed clumps, his jaw was clean-shaven and his tanned skin completely free of marks. Given the late hour, he hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on and as soon as he was safely back in the room he kicked his trousers off too. Now that Eskel was completely naked, Jaskier could see the _wastage._ During the winter, the wolves put on a layer Vesemir had - _very quietly and affectionately -_ referred to as ‘puppy fat’. It gave them a bit of a buffer in the spring if contracts proved to be a little scarce at first, but Eskel had powered through that and started on his muscle stores. Jaskier could see his ribs, the edges of his collarbone and, when he turned, the vertebrae of his spine too. On a man as large and broad as Eskel, it was horrendously obvious.

“Hmm, that’s a new look.” Eskel grumbled as he sat down on the foot of the bed with the stew in his hands.

“What is?” Jaskier blinked out of his rueful reverie.

“Distressed pity,” the Witcher blew across the spoon once he’d sniffed the meat to check for rot. “What’s on your mind?”

“I - ,” Jaskier sat down next to him on the bed and stroked the backs of his fingers down one bare thigh; a thigh that was _a lot_ thicker the last time he touched it. “I wish you could stay here with me. The world feels a bit more dangerous than usual.”

“Don’t you remember the last war? It felt exactly the same.”

“The _last time_ I was too busy hiding in the Emperor’s closet,” Jaskier smirked, quite enjoying the varying level of innuendo and euphemism, but it didn’t last as the creeping dread that he realised had been nestled in his heart since leaving Kaer Morhen seeped back in. It had eased roughly by half upon seeing Eskel in his doorway, but his mind drifted to Geralt. “I didn’t feel this overwhelming… anxious helplessness.” His thumb traced over a familiar scar knotted just above Eskel’s knee. “Perhaps it was because I didn’t have so many loved ones out on the front line. You said some soldiers chased you?”

“It’s my own fault,” Eskel sighed. “I went too far south and didn’t realise Niflgaard had pushed so far _north._ I took a contract at a small hamlet and when I came back two days later with the evidence, it’d been completely ransacked. Bodies everywhere.” The Witcher paused and stirred his stew. “I stayed to bury as many as I could. Started with the kids, I just - the thought of wolves and necrophages eating kids, I - .” He shook his head. “Didn’t count on the battalion riding back through. I felt like a fox on a hound hunt. Second and third times were Redanians, I think that was post-Radovid’s assassination.”

“You say it’s your ‘own fault’ as if you did anything wrong,” Jaskier leaned over and placed a kiss gently upon Eskel’s jaw. “The Continent doesn’t deserve you. It doesn’t deserve _any_ of you.” 

Eskel considered this. Jaskier watched unspoken thoughts flicker behind his amber eyes, but that’s where they stayed. The burning need to demand Eskel stay in Oxenfurt coiled in Jaskier’s chest and his mouth even opened to speak, the words forming on his tongue, but his eyes alighted on the medallion resting on Eskel’s chest and he swallowed them back down again. _He couldn’t make that demand._ Not if Eskel wasn’t ready.

“I don’t want you to come to Posada this year,” Eskel finished his food and placed the bowl next to his hip, “It’s not safe. Stay inside Oxenfurt’s walls. With Lambert and Caladrius. Geralt will understand.”

It made sense. Logical. With just the two of them, Jaskier and Lambert would still be at risk, but they couldn’t take a _child_ to the other side of the Continent just to spend a few days at a festival; it probably wouldn’t even happen this year. The journey down from Morhen Valley had been bad enough. Eskel was protecting the ones he loved by liberating them of that promise, but Jaskier’s heart cracked down the middle. “So, I - we won’t see you until the winter.”

“Why? Am I limited to one annual session now you have your own live-in Witcher?” Eskel was battling a smile, lips rolling inwards as he stared at the floor in hope that Jaskier wouldn’t see his amusement. _Tough_ , Jaskier was Eskel-fluent and, outside of Gwent, he had a piss poor poker face (even then, it wasn’t particularly effective around his partners).

“Oh, I don’t know, I might be able to fit you in once or twice more.” Jaskier studied his nails, one leg crossed over the other. 

“I’m honoured by the consideration.”

“Payment upfront is required.”

“ _Payment?_ ” Eskel raised a brow. 

“Yes. I want to fall asleep wrapped around you like a fur shawl. Lay down.” Jaskier flicked his hand towards the bed and proceeded to relieve himself of his clothes, because he knew that Eskel was just _waiting_ for a cuddle but hadn’t switched out of ‘solitary Path mode’ yet; a default state of being where one ignored all personal desires and wants in favour of basic survival. Before he stripped off his chemise, he checked on Cal one last time. Their pup was still happily snoozing; the doll hadn’t migrated back over his face. 

Eskel sprawled out unceremoniously on his front, face down in a pillow, his large hands kneading absently at the blankets. Jaskier paused to watch his Witcher enjoy the simple comfort of a soft bed; the sheets were relatively fresh, but they would still hold traces of Lambert and plenty of Jaskier. The occasional, quiet snuffles betrayed his search for the familiar scents of his lovers. “Why’ve you not been eating?” Jaskier clambered gracelessly onto the bed and draped himself over Eskel’s back, with a little bit of wriggling he managed to worm his hands beneath that broad chest, his head resting between his shoulder blades.

“Poor hunting, lack of payment. I make do, don’t nag,” Eskel grumbled into the bed, his eyes already heavy, “Ow.” A half-hearted acknowledgement as Jaskier bit his shoulder in retribution, but Eskel didn’t even move.

“Watch it, you’re starting to sound like Geralt,” Jaskier growled right back and tightened his arms. “I’m not nagging, merely expressing concern over your well being. If the hunting is really that bad, you should have come back sooner. To be quite honest, I - Eskel?” His back was rising and falling very slowly, his eyes were closed and was that a - _yes, that was a snore._ With a rueful chuckle, Jaskier settled down atop his Witcher mattress and pulled a blanket over them. No doubt he’d end up kicking it away during the night because Eskel burned hotter than the _sun_ when he was content, but for now he closed his eyes and listened to the strong, slow heartbeat beneath him.

***

Lambert arrived home the following day as predicted and he was only _mostly_ covered in oily black bile, which was always a positive. Once he was clean and back to the room, he spent some time wrapped around Eskel; he too noticed the lack of meat on his lover’s bones but, predictably, tried to make light of it. “You know, when I tell you and Geralt your asses are fat, that’s actually a compliment. Nothing like a big thick backside to grab onto. There was no need to go on a crash diet.” 

“If you actually flirted like a normal person, I might’ve stood half a chance all those decades.” Eskel huffed.

“Sorry if I’m not old enough to remember the chivalric code of courting.”

Eskel flopped back against Jaskier’s legs in resignation and looked back down to the book in his hands. The bard plucked idly at the lute resting across his lap and watched Lambert play with Cal. They played a game of balance; Cal tried to stand up for as long as he could and then giggled when he flopped into Lambert’s arms. He was getting better at it and - 

“Eskel.” Lambert said sharply, and the other looked up from his book, because Cal was _walking towards him._ It was a shaky, uneven stagger, and he flopped down onto his rear twice, but he pushed himself back up each time with a look of _determination_ on his face. The book skittered across the floor - _eighth century poetry be damned -_ as Eskel lobbed it and then held his arms out.

“C’mon, little bird. Keep going.” Eskel said softly, amber eyes wide. Jaskier placed his lute carefully down by the side of the chair and leaned forward. _One step, two steps and - flop_. Cal bubbled happily from Eskel’s lap, and the Witcher scooped him up with a pleased growl. “ _Yes_. Well done. What a clever little bird.” Two chubby hands batted at his face and Cal flashed all his little teeth in a grin. 

They spent the afternoon trying to get Cal to do it again. Lambert hid behind furniture and pulled faces. Most of the time Cal crawled, but if he was planted on his feet against a support, he waddled a few more paces; two grown wolves playing and bonding with their pup. In the end, Jaskier had to put a stop to it as Cal started to look a little weary. Both Lambert and Eskel reluctantly agreed, but all three of them stood around the crib for some time gazing proudly down at their small bundle. 

Jaskier was so absorbed in their vigil that he almost missed the knock on the door. The stout porter proffered a small pack of letters bound up in twine, and Jaskier thanked him with a Crown before closing him out into the corridor. The usual invitations to midsummer balls, a few requests for information, a declaration of love - _oh dear he didn’t even recognise the name, must be from years ago -_ and then something that rather knocked the air from his chest.

A letter from the executor of the will of one Alonso Wiley, better known as _Whoreson Senior_ , crime boss and one of the Big Four of Novigrad. He also just happened to be a patron of the arts and one of Jaskier’s biggest fans.

* * *

_For the attention of Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove (alias: Jaskier),_

_Upon the death of Alonso Wiley, you have been bequeathed with a small section of his estate. From henceforth, the Rosemary and Thyme, located in the Free City of Novigrad, has been transferred into your ownership. Please report to the town hall to collect the deeds to land and building at your earliest convenience._

_Yours sincerely,  
Codringher and Fenn_

* * *

Eskel appeared at his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

“Umm, it appears I have inherited a brothel.”

Lambert barked a laugh. “Of course you fucking have.” Cal mewled in protest, and the Witcher dropped a hand in the crib to soothe him. “You never disappoint, Buttercup.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the short hiatus. Real life and all that. I've had a bit of a fiddle with the timeline again, folks. But I figured it's justified; it would take a legal firm quite some time to deal with a will, and during war-time messages are delayed. This is a bit of a transitional chapter with some fluff. Onto more shenanigans!


	9. Cabarets and Old Flames

“The walls have never been breached, Eskel,” Jaskier threw the windows open to air the room, disturbing a small pile of white feathers gathered on the outside windowsill; three men and a baby created a rather musty odour after a good night’s rest. “We’ll be safer there than we are even in Oxenfurt.”

Eskel propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m not questioning that. It’s the _getting there_ that’s the problem. The countryside isn’t safe. It’s not just Nilfgaardian battalions you have to worry about. Redanians, Temerians, deserters, bandits. They’re all having a field day.”

“Be a stupid fucking bandit that picks a fight with two Witchers and a feral bard,” Lambert murmured as he rolled over onto his back and stretched his arms above his head. “You’re being paranoid.”

“Sorry, did you selectively not hear what I - ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course. But that was one of you. There’ll be _three_ of us.”

“Plus Caladrius,” Eskel threw the blankets off his legs and snatched his shirt from the floor. “Stay _here._ ”

“All in favour of heading to Novigrad and Buttercup’s whorehouse say aye,” Lambert threw his hand up, closely followed by his partner in crime, even the _baby_ made a bubbling-farting noise. “You’re outvoted, Eskel.”

“A fart doesn’t count as a vote.” Eskel grumbled, but realised with a heavy heart that he’d lost this particular battle. He stood by the open window that Jaskier had left moments before and stared gumly down into the street. Two arms covered in the loose cotton of a chemise wrapped about his waist, and Jaskier pressed to his back.

“It’ll be fine, my love. It’s barely two days’ riding. A nice change of scenery and we won’t be under the watchful eye of the Redanian Intelligence Service any longer.” Jaskier pressed his lips between Eskel’s shoulder blades and then drew back to settle his hands on narrow hips. After a week and a half with them, Eskel was already starting to put on a little weight. Lambert was an excellent accomplice and had invented three additional meal times: brunch, afternoonsies and moonsies, although Jaskier was certain that last one was about eating something a little more risque than a bowl of porridge.

“Fine. But I’m taking two new books from the library. I’ve read the last two four times each.” It was impossible to stay sullen with Jaskier’s arms around him; Eskel loosened them only briefly to swivel around and pull his bard against his chest, face buried in his unkempt nest of sleep-tousled hair. “Geralt would never forgive me if I let anything happen to you.”

“Ahh,” Jaskier parted with a final kiss to Eskel’s chest. “Now, you see, you have it the wrong way ‘round.” He patted Eskel’s jaw before collecting his wash bag. “Geralt wouldn’t forgive _me_ if anything happened to you two. Fret not, dear heart. I will see you safely to Novigrad on the morrow!” And he left with a flourish.

Lambert sighed and bit his lower lip, amber eyes wide as he watched Jaskier leave. Eskel raised a brow. “What?”

“Oh, I just love him so fucking much,” Lambert mumbled. “I’m almost disgusted with myself.” 

Eskel chuckled. “Trust you to use the word ‘love’ and ‘disgust’ in the same sentence.”

“Yeah, well, got a reputation to maintain. Can’t have people thinkin’ I’ve gone soft or something.” Lambert said as he swept his infant son from his crib and proceeded to hold him aloft, pretending he was a bird in flight as he walked towards the bed.

“Oh yeah, reputation, right.” Eskel smirked as he rooted through his bags for a clean pair of braies.

***

The ride to Novigrad was uneventful but for a few roving groups of refugees. Hollowed eyes watched them pass from gaunt faces, their skeletal bodies barely able to muster the energy to call out to them for aid. Many of them weren’t native Redanians, but citizens from Sodden, Temeria, Lyria; all the places currently being ravaged by Nilfgaard’s relentless pursuit of power and resources. Jaskier held Caladrius tight to his chest and urged Dandelion onwards down the path. There was nothing he could do, he hadn’t more than a handful of Crowns to his own name.

It was a relief when the tall spires and forbidding walls of Novigrad loomed in the distance. The guards eyed the two Witchers with distrust, but when Jaskier rode to the front with babe in arms, they were allowed to pass; a nobleman had hired two bodyguards for his journey, certainly not unheard of. The Rosemary and Thyme was in the southernmost district, southwest from the Oxenfurt gate. As they rode through the bustling streets of the Free City, the vestiges of war were all too obvious. Liveried soldiers mixed with the usual throng of merchants, beggars, rogues and prostitutes and, regrettably, Radovid’s death had done little to weaken the hold of the Eternal Fire. Lambert told one particularly vehement priest to ‘suck his mutant dick’ as he went past, one hand lifting threateningly towards his sword hilt; Cal’s bubbling cry reminded him of his responsibilities and they rode on.

The Rosemary and Thyme was a beautiful building on the corner of the street. It stood three floors tall, with a single spire on the right, its timber beams segmented by off-white stucco. Compared to the other buildings on either side, the Rosemary and Thyme bore itself with magnificent gradure. Jaskier breathed an awed gasp. “It’s more beautiful than I remember.”

Lambert smirked. “Regular were you?”

“I was partial to a visit or two in my youth.” Jaskier shot back, one eyebrow raised.

“Hmm,” Eskel squinted as a rather unsavoury individual walked by a first floor window. Even from this distance, the armaments strapped to his hip and his general disheveled visage were more than apparent. _Bandits._ “Looks like you have some squatters.” He slipped down from Scorpion’s back and passed the reins of his bridle up to Jaskier. “Wait here. Lambert and I will make our introductions.”

The two Witchers approached the front door without weapons drawn and let themselves in. All was silent for around five minutes, and then Jaskier caught the sounds of breaking furniture and raised voices. Apparently his guests had claimed squatters rights and needed a little bit of convincing to leave. Jaskier watched the Witchers’ progress as they worked through each floor; some of the wiser rogues fled out the front door, not even giving pause to eye the bard and three horses waiting in the courtyard outside. 

For a single precious moment, Jaskier thought that the internal damage might not be too bad, but his optimism was soon punished when a bandit shattered through a third floor window. The horses nickered in alarm, and he shushed them with a gentle tut of his tongue. After twenty minutes of scuffling and muffled shouts, Lambert and Eskel reappeared; their swords hadn’t even left their scabbards.

“Well, how many bodies do we have to dispose of?”

“None. We’ve already hauled them out back. I’ll drag them down to the river later.” Lambert replied, airily.

“I suppose one window isn’t too bad a casualty.” Jaskier passed Cal into Lambert’s arms and dropped from Dandelion’s saddle.

“Oh, I - uh -,” Eskel looked slightly sheepish.

“It wasn’t just a window,” Lambert offered with a smirk. “Eskel Aard-ed him through a wall, and _then_ the window.”

“A wall…” Jaskier sighed, and Eskel squeezed his shoulder in apology. Thankfully, the majority of the interior was relatively undisturbed. The bandits had made a mess, of course; there were empty kegs of beer, a few beaten up items of furniture and a prevailing odour that required airing out. With his hands on his hips, Jaskier gazed appreciatively around the main room. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

Eskel stood at his shoulder. “So, are you going to keep it as a brothel?”

“My younger self might have. It would certainly be the easier option. Established clientele, and an endless workforce, but…” He trailed off.

“What?”

“I’ve harboured a dream - an ambition - for many years to open my very own cabaret,” Jaskier folded his arms. “It all started when Geralt and I visited one in my youth. This beautiful angel hung from a light and descended over Geralt, and - well, _anyway_ , I put it to the back of my mind because I had more important matters to attend to.”

“Well, Buttercup, this is your opportunity,” Lambert held Cal close because there were far too many sharp edges for him to ensnare himself upon. “What do you need?”

“Money,” Jaskier sighed, ruefully. “Alas, to convert this brothel into a cabaret, with requisite decor and trained personnel, I would need a small fortune, or a wealthy benefactor.”

“Ah.” Eskel rubbed the side of his face, fingertips running the contours of his scars. “Not sure we can help you there.”

“Give me a few days to think it over, I’m sure I can come up with something. In the meantime, we need to start tidying up what we can.”

And soon Eskel had to return to the Path. His funds were running low, Jaskier knew, so he had to think quickly. They managed to tidy the majority of the mess left behind by the squatters within a couple of days, although apparently they had a bird problem, because it felt like they were constantly sweeping white feathers out into the street. Jaskier moved his belongings into the tower room on the far right of the property. It was as he was unpacking that he stumbled across the answer to their prayers. The letter from the lover he’d forgotten. Inside the walls of Novigrad, with its sights and scents linked to so many pleasant - and not so pleasant - memories, the name _finally_ rang a distant, wine-soaked bell. _Sophronia._ Rich merchant’s daughter with a penchant for the dramatic and a love of theatre. 

_Oh ho ho._

_Yes. That would do quite nicely._

That evening, he sat down with Lambert and Eskel in the tower room and explained his cunning plan. The Witchers passed the letter between them over their bowls of stew with an accompanying trencher of bread. “Her name’s Sophronia,” he explained. “A lovely little thing in her day, although we didn’t part on the _best_ of terms.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “She still seems obsessed though,” he smirked. “Says she’ll ‘forgive you for your flight’. What did you do, you dog?”

To his credit, Jaskier looked suitably ashamed. “She had a night planned for us and I said I was just stepping out for a bottle of wine, and I - uh, I didn’t go back.”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Eskel blustered, clearly appalled. _Ever the gentleman._

“I heard tell of Geralt that very day and couldn’t get him out of my head. I was young, impatient, excitable.” Jaskier said it as if it excused his behaviour, but his resigned sigh acknowledged that his youthful enthusiasm did not excuse being an asshole. 

“And you expect this woman to give you money?” Eskel sounded unconvinced.

“Not _her_ money. Her father’s. He’s a rich spice trader; trades with the Zerrikanians. And, if my memory serves, daddy dearest will do anything for his darling angel.” 

“But you ran out on her, it says here she’s willing to give it another try, not lend you a couple of thousand Crowns.” Eskel tapped the letter when Lambert passed it back in favour of checking on Cal; their small ball of energy, odour and giggles was fast asleep in the centre of the big bed, nestled in a donut of blankets and pillows.

“Luckily for me, she has a love of romantic adventure and melodrama,” Jaskier trotted over to his desk and proffered two sheets of paper in the air triumphantly. “I have the perfect plan.”

“I have an uncomfortable feeling,” Eskel rubbed his stomach with a grimace. “Usually happens when one of you two are brewing a bad idea.”

“Nah, told you that goat stew was off,” Lambert murmured and plucked the parchment out of Jaskier’s hands. “This is a script, Buttercup.”

“Quite!” Jaskier planted his hands on his hips. “I will save the beautiful Sophronia from the evil machinations of a bandit seeking to rob her of her… goods,” he cleared his throat, “and she’ll feel so grateful that she will bestow upon me a huge reward. Enough to outfit the Rosemary and Thyme with new purpose.” _And a new name._

“So, it’s a swindle,” Eskel murmured, looking disappointed. “Jaskier, I’m sure we can think of a - .”

“I’m in,” Lambert grinned. “Says here you need a ‘dashing rogue’.” He pointed two thumbs back at his chest. “That’s me.”

“I knew I could count on you, my love.” Jaskier leaned forward and placed a kiss on the tip of Lambert’s nose; the Witcher then turned to Eskel with a cheeky wriggle of his eyebrows. _Guess who’s number one Witcher now, Eskel._

Eskel frowned, shook his head, but said nothing more. Instead, he picked up one of the books he’d borrowed from the academy library and sat down next to the hearth. Jaskier, uncomfortable with brooding silence when it was _Eskel_ doing the brooding, sidled over and slipped into his lap. “No one’s getting hurt, no one’s losing anything that they can’t afford to lose.”

“It’s dishonest, Jaskier, I - ,” Eskel leaned back in the armchair, hands planted on the arms, “I’m no saint, but this feels wrong.”

“This is an opportunity I can’t afford to miss,” Jaskier paused. “Well, I can’t afford it at _all._ Hence the plan. But, this… this place can be a safe home for you, for Lambert, for Geralt. _For Caladrius._ Kaer Morhen is at the very top of the mountain, you can only access it during the winter, but you can come here whenever. A home away from home. Besides, I would pay it back, just a short term loan. Once the cabaret starts pulling in patrons - .”

“Alright,” Eskel rested a palm on his bard’s back. “One day I’ll make an honest man out of you.” He said it with aweight that Jaskier couldn’t identify, but the moment was lost when Eskel leaned back and glared at Lambert. “And you.”

“Now now, Eskel, don’t get too ambitious.” Lambert shrugged off his trousers and settled on the bed with his lines. _Tremble, flaxen-haired wench…_

***

A little bit of preparation was needed. Luckily, Sophronia still resided in the same quaint little terrace near the docks. She still frequented the same embroidery class and - _oh dear, Eskel was right. This was very, very wrong._ He had to keep reminding himself that the endeavour was for the greater good. No one was getting hurt. No one was losing anything permanently. Jaskier ruminated over whether he should get a prop sword, but he needed it to look _real._ His Witcher accomplice agreed to go easy on him and even offered to fight with one hand behind his back. _The absolute cheek of it._

He gave his dashing rogue a red handkerchief to tie around his face, gave him a description and put him in place. For himself, he purchased a purple mask to match his _most dashing_ doublet, combed his hair - ignoring the few greys here and there - and waited around the corner for Lambert to ‘strike’. After his meticulous performance at Kaer Morhen for their little roleplay, Jaskier knew Lambert would fill his role with aplomb.

_He was not disappointed._

As poor Sophronia rounded the corner on her way to her embroidery group, Lambert _dropped from a gods-damned tree_ and threw out his hand. “Stop right there.” He snarled.

Sophronia’s eyes widened. “Wh-what is this?” She looked around frantically. “Help, save me!”

Lambert folded his arms, head cocked to the side, eyebrow quirked. “Tremble, flaxen-haired wench, bow before the prince of thieves.” The Witcher reached up for the hilt of his steel sword and drew it with a flourish; the hilt span around his hand

Oh dear Melitele, Jaskier wanted to tremble before the prince of thieves. _No, bad bard, focus. Focus!_ He cleared his throat and stepped out from the shadows, mask in place. “Not so fast!” Jaskier thrust out his hand. “Drop your sword, scoundrel. This is your first and last warning.”

Sophronia squinted at the new arrival, and then clasped her hands to her chest. “Jaskier?” Her tone one of incredulous delight, no doubt her letter still fresh in her mind.

“‘Tis I! Though the scum of the city call me the Crimson Avenger.”

Lambert didn’t predict how hilarious he’d find it and coughed to cover his guffaw. In fact, Jaskier’s imperious tone was _so_ funny that he almost forgot his next line and ended up stuttering through it. “Oh, no-o-o, n-not the Crimson Avenger.” _Nailed it._

“Silence, vermin! You shall regret the day you were born!” Jaskier yanked his sword free from his back and leapt forward to engage Lambert with a downward swing. The Witcher deflected with an effortless upwards arc and the clash of steel rang out around the small square. Several more jabs were effortlessly knocked away, and eventually Jaskier locked hilts and seethed through gritted teeth. “Make it seem a little more difficult to fend me off or it doesn’t look genuine.”

“Alright, alright,” Lambert disconnected the pommel and the next swing he _feigned_ out of the way, and then _grunted_ with the effort of the next parry; he side-stepped and weaved until Jaskier backed him into a corner and then raised his hands. “I yield! I yield!” 

Jaskier twirled his blade. “The Crimson Avenger triumphs again!”

Sophronia _swooned._ “My hero!” Lower lip rolled between her teeth, her shoulders swaying. “Are you well?”

“One blow struck,” Jaskier replied, blithely. “Another scar for my collection.”

“Come inside, let me bandage you up,” she slipped an arm through his elbow, and then rounded on Lambert, who’d returned his own sword to his back. “Begone, vile bandit! Or the Crimson Avenger will beat you senseless.” 

The Witcher bowed out - returning Jaskier’s mischievous little wink with a smirk of his own - and returned to the Rosemary and Thyme. The entire building was in darkness and locked up tight to prevent any more unwanted intruders, but Lambert let himself in through the front door and headed up to Jaskier’s tower room. The sight that greeted him was one that brought a swell of warmth to his vagrant heart; Eskel sat in the armchair, asleep, with Caladrius sprawled out on his chest. There was no fear that the child would slip or fall, because those big arms cradled his little body protectively even in slumber. 

The hearth was burning low, so Lambert topped it up once he’d shed his swords and gambeson, then he prepared the blankets and pillows on the bed. Eskel was already awake - he had been the moment the key turned in the door downstairs - but was dozing as Lambert moved around the room; he only stirred when two soft lips pressed to the notches on his own. “Huh. Isn’t a prince meant to deliver the kiss to wake the princess?”

“Hmm,” Lambert smirked, their mouths still almost touching; air shared, scents mixing. “The _prettiest_ princesses get dashing rogues.”

“Now _that_ is proper flirting,” Eskel grinned, one big hand stroking over the loose curls of the sleeping babe on his chest; they were both whispering, but Caladrius seemed to like the rumble of their voices in the background anyway. “You’re really going with this whole rogue business, hm?”

“Don’t fix what ain’t broke,” Lambert brushed his nose down the scars on Eskel’s face, scenting him, before rubbing his stubble over them next. “Coming to bed?”

“Jaskier - ?”

“It all went to plan. He said he’d meet us back here when he had everything sorted out.”

Eskel stood slowly, gently lowering Cal into the cradle of his arm. “Sometimes I get lost in those pretty blue eyes and forget what an absolute feral scoundrel he is.”

“Yeah,” Lambert grinned, “but you fuckin’ love it.”

“Hmm.” 

They curled up on the big, king-sized bed with Cal carefully sequestered between them. At some point during the night, Lambert’s hand found one of Eskel’s big paws on top of the blankets and their fingers wound together. He’d be leaving for the Path soon and Lambert just… didn’t want to let him go.

***

Sophronia’s father proved to be _exceptionally_ grateful for Jaskier’s assistance in protecting his daughter, and provided an interest free loan on the promise that a chair would always be available to him at the Rosemary and Thyme. _Jaskier tried to not read into that one too closely._ It took him a couple more days to recruit some dwarven workers - reliable, steadfast and in need of a fair wage - and Jaskier was soon picking out colour swatches and furniture. When he wasn’t looking after Cal, Lambert proved to be an industrious worker and was keen to work with the dwarves on the design of the bar area. They decided to rename it too. They had to shed the Rosemary and Thyme’s reputation as a brothel and rebuild her anew. The cabaret would be known as _the Chameleon._

The dwarves informed them that they must have doves nesting in the roof somewhere, because they kept finding clusters of white feathers near open windows, but no one could find the birds themselves; one of the workers offered to get up into the roof space once they reached the upper floors to check it out. They could worry about it later.

Eskel helped with the carpentry, putting the skills that had built Cal’s crib at Kaer Morhen to work repairing derelict pieces of furniture and fashioning new ones. Tables, chairs, beds, cabinets, chests; nothing was beyond his skillset. His best work went on Lambert’s bar though because, without the knowledge of the others, he carved a small wolf’s head in a discreet location with six initials around it - E, J, L, G, V and C. Yes, he was getting sentimental in his old age, but if this was going to be - well, if - _hmm_. He wasn’t sure _why_ he did it. Just did. Eskel became so lost in his work that he almost forgot about the Path. _Almost._

It was a misty morning when Eskel finally threw himself up into Scorpion's saddle and turned his nose towards the Heirarch’s Gate. He grasped Lambert’s forearm and stroked a hand through Jaskier’s hair, before heading out into greater Redania with a heavy heart. Two things - one _realisation_ , one person - provided him solace as he left his loved ones behind. In a few weeks, he’d head to Posada and wrap his arms around Geralt. And one day, he wouldn’t have to do this anymore. _One day -_

_One day he might retire._


	10. En'ca Minne

The Rosemary and Thyme transformed into the Chameleon in a matter of weeks. Dwarves were a hardworking and industrious people, so it was really no surprise. Lambert joked that had they hired human workers, Jaskier might be looking to open at some point next winter. But there was something _missing_ from the whole affair. Lambert was a fine barman - Jaskier could never quite get his head round how deep Lambert’s knowledge of alcohol ran - and his countenance took care of any troublemakers before they started anything, but he showed very little interest in the creative side of things and paperwork really wasn’t his area of expertise. As Jaskier poured over yet _more_ letters of recommendation, bills and plans, he turned to Cal.

“You know, I don’t have the patience for this,” he murmured. “My brain is geared towards the wild and the creative. I need freedom of flight. But right now, I feel anchored to the sea floor, dear one.” The babe bubbled at him from his pen - a carefully constructed wooden enclosure the dwarves had thrown together in the belief that the lad needed space to play, crawl and walk - and stacked another block. “Yes, you’re right. I need someone with a head for business. Someone organised, whip smart. But who understands my creative brilliance,” he tapped his chin and then squinted as Cal giggled, “no, by this point in my life, I feel the adjective ‘brilliant’ has been earned.”

_He’d think of something…_

Luckily, destiny was clearly feeling quite charitable that year, as Jaskier stumbled across a potential solution as he walked through the streets of Novigrad. A flyer fluttered down from the wall beneath an archway and settled at his feet. The name leapt out at him immediately and he stooped to snatch it from the cobblestones. _Callonetta._ His grin stretched so widely across his face that his cheeks ached and he flapped the circular in the air before him. “But of course.” Her triumphant tour of the Continent had taken her to the furthest reaches Kovir and Poviss, to the esteemed halls of Tretegor and beyond. Yet now she returned home to her old stomping grounds to entertain her own people.

That evening, he introduced the idea to Lambert. “She’s magnificent, Lambert. Truly. There isn’t a woman on the Continent with a finer voice, nor a fiercer disposition. The Wolven Storm is a true masterpiece, and I believe she sings Her Sweet Kiss better than even I.”

“She an old squeeze?” The Witcher kicked his bare feet up over the armchair and examined the artist’s representation on the flyer in his hand. “She’s pretty. I might get jealous.” He was only half-joking, and Jaskier marked that.

“Granted, she was the first person to ever see something more in me than the foppish buffoon,” Jaskier rubbed the bristles on his jaw - he would need to shave before meeting her - and leaned back in his desk chair. “While I ran about acting the fool, she scoffed and said I was convincing no one. It was to her I went running every time Geralt’s rejection became a little too strong, and she weathered my… erratic behaviour with bountiful amounts of patience.”

“Hmm.” Lambert swapped the flyer for a baby and settled Cal in his lap. The child was getting big now, with a chunky middle and ample amounts of rolls on his arms; no one could ever say their son was not well looked after. “Just make sure she keeps her knickers on or it’ll take a whole lot of fucking to get the smell off you before the others find out.”

“After all this time, your overwhelming trust is so very heartening.” Jaskier sighed, exasperated.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he bounced Cal in the air and grinned at the rewarded giggle. “Don’t take it personally, Buttercup. I only trust five people in the whole world. Be six when Cal gets big enough to not put every fucking object he comes across in his mouth.” 

_Five people not including Cal._ Jaskier squinted. “Who’s the fifth?”

Lambert smirked over his shoulder, but said nothing more. _Fine, keep your secrets._

Priscilla’s final performance took place in the Golden Sturgeon and Jaskier ensured he was in the audience. Her voice was as sweet and as entrancing as he remembered, and he gazed at her with wide, adoring eyes for the entire set. She spotted him quickly enough, a small smile breaking the performer’s facade before she quickly returned to her study of the crowd. Once she’d finished, Jaskier hung back to allow her to absorb the applause and adoration of her fans, before approaching with a courtly half bow.

“A masterful performance,” he smiled. “May I buy the lady a drink?”

Priscilla placed her lute gently within its case and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Yes, I do believe you owe me at least five.”

“Three on last count.” Jaskier offered his arm and she took it with a theatrical palm across her chest, as if thoroughly wooed by his gentlemanly attention. With two goblets of wine in hand, they sat down in a quiet corner and Priscilla pulled out the Gwent cards. She _never_ played for Crowns, only for pleasure, which was just as well because she thrashed Jaskier so swiftly in the first two matches that he barely had a chance to register it. “You need to play Lambert. I think he’s the only man on the Continent that would stand a chance.”

“Ahh, one of your pack of Witchers,” Priscilla grinned and collected her cards towards her. “I’ve heard you now have one in full attendance, with a child no less.”

“You know about that?”

“Jaskier, you’ve set the standard for bards everywhere. Every troubadour worth their salt knows the comings and goings of your muses,” she sipped her wine and considered him carefully. “Now, even with the extra lines, I know that look. What have you come to ask of me?”

“You always assume that - ,” he trailed off as she raised both her eyebrows; there was little point in trying to pull the wool over her eyes, “I’ve started a new venture, and I could use a greater mind than mine to help me organise it.”

“The Rosemary and Thyme,” she examined her nails. “I don’t think a brothel is really my scene.”

“Not a brothel, a cabaret. I secured a wealthy benefactor, a sizable loan, the remodelling is almost finished. It’s just a matter of sourcing performers, food, drink. Advertisements.” He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. 

“The organisation of a business requires patience and focus, in addition to intelligence and wit,” she leaned forwards. “The latter two you have in abundance, but your supplies of the first are limited and oftentimes redeployed in other, more muscular directions. You want me to be your business manager.”

“Well - ,” Jaskier turned his goblet on the table. “Obviously your salary would be generous, I would bow to your business acumen, and I wouldn’t prevent you from going on your touring circuits, obviously. To deny the Continent your illustrious talent would be a true crime against art.”

“Jaskier, you know you don’t need to flatter me,” she threw one arm over the back of the chair. “I’ll do it. Not like the touring circuit is very safe at the moment, and I could use the stable income. But I have terms.”

“Right. Which are?”

“Anyone who touches or molests the performers is banned for life.”

“Obviously.” Jaskier nodded.

“I want creative freedom and choice. Sometimes you’ll need to take a step back.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“I can veto any outrageous purchases. You’re hopeless with money.”

Jaskier flinched. “I suppose…” A pause. “May I have _one_ outrageous purchase a season?”

She narrowed her eyes. “ _One._ ”

“You’re hired!” 

She chuckled and toasted her goblet towards him. “To a long and illustrious partnership.”

*** 

Lambert warmed up to Priscilla pretty quickly. She dealt with his snark with an admirable amount of wit and sass, which earned her begrudging respect. This promptly became an odd kind of friendship - as close to Lambert could get to a friend, anyway - when she took a shine to Cal; “such a lovely little giggle, oh, look at his hair. What a little angel. Jaskier, you know he will sing like a starling when he’s old enough.” The babe bubbled at her and was quite content to sit in her lap, playing with her fine clothing and soft blonde hair. Apparently Caladrius was now Lambert’s litmus test for ‘good people’. 

With Priscilla on board, the business side of things took flight. She interviewed and auditioned performers at a startling rate, with Jaskier at her side to approve her choices. There was rarely any argument; Priscilla knew her trade. With more people around, it was far easier to leave Caladrius in his pen now and then so that both Jaskier and Lambert could attend to other matters; his cries would be heard by someone should he need them, and they returned regularly to check in, have a cuddle and swap his toys over.

It was on one of these return visits that Lambert paused in the hallway. Caladrius was gurgling and cooing - he was a happy kid, nothing unusual - but Lambert _froze_ when something a bit deeper _cooed back._ His pupils narrowed to thin slits, hands itching for the two swords currently hanging up inside the room. His fingers wrapped slowly around the door knob, shoulder braced. Cal giggled again, and then _whatever it was_ replied with another low trill. It didn’t _sound_ dangerous, but Lambert could write a comprehensive _list_ of creatures that lured their prey with gentle, innocent noises before snapping their jaws shut.

He burst in and immediately threw up a Quen shield around Caladrius’ pen. It took him seconds to muster the energy for a follow up Aard that blasted the vaguely humanoid shape at the edge of his vision against the wall. There was no retaliation. The man, once recovered, lifted his hands over a bowed head. “Please. I meant no harm.” Coughed; the impact had winded him.

Lambert moved closer, his face warped in a scowl. Their visitor had pale, almost alabaster white, skin. It blended near perfectly with his hair, which fell down in a snowy white cascade to pool around his feet on the floor; it would reach well past his backside if he were standing. From what Lambert could see, his body was slender, with only a smattering of athletic muscle. The two eyes that looked up at him were a bright, luminescent blue. _The same colour as Caladrius’._ “Dhalion,” the Witcher didn’t question; now that he was closer, he recognised the scent, his medallion humming gently against his chest. “I could’ve killed you.”

“I… I’m sorry, I... ” Dhalion’s hands lowered slowly, and he very tentatively unfurled to his feet. Completely naked, obviously, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by it. “I’ve been watching from afar for a while. I just needed to speak with him.”

“The feathers,” Lambert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Of course, he was such a fucking idiot._ “You do realise you’re shedding fucking everywhere.” Including now, when Dhalion moved, white feathers drifted down from where they stuck out haphazardly from his long mane of hair.

“Yes. It happens when I’ve expended huge amounts of energy. The war is… keeping me busy.”

At this point, Jaskier burst into the room, breathless and gasping. “Someone said they heard a loud bang, I came as soon as I - ,” his mouth dropped open as he saw the staggeringly gorgeous creature currently standing awkwardly by the window, “well.” All words vanished from his head as soon as he caught sight of those beautiful eyes, and his own dropped to Caladrius. There was no mistaking the similarity.

“Jaskier, this is Dhalion,” Lambert murmured. “Caladrius’ father.” His hands flexed at his side, gaze dropping away. “So you’ve come to take him away from me?” He bit it out like the words were toxic.

 _From me._ Jaskier lifted a hand and rested it gently on Lambert’s shoulder, but Dhalion’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, certainly not. You - I - could never offer what you have given him. I’m - ,” he looked fondly at his bubbling son, “ - I’m grateful. He’s so content. He loves you very much.”

“Coulda’ fooled me. He pissed on me this morning.” Lambert growled. Until that point, his feet had felt as if they were stuck to the floor by an invisible force - the thought of losing Caladrius had immobilised him - but now he finally walked across to the pen and bent down to pluck the child from the floor. “You want to hold him?”

“M - may I?” Dhalion sounded almost strangled and limped forward. _Limped._

“Is it - ? Have I broken something?” 

“Oh, no. I healed a soldier with a shattered leg on my way here. I dispersed the majority of it, but when you get to my age, the aches tend to remain for a while.” He held his arms out and accepted Caladrius to his chest, the expression on his face one of mystified awe. The next noise that passed his lips was another avian coo to which Cal replied with his own bubbling variant. Their noses nuzzled together and two small hands lifted to encircle his father’s jaw. “En’ca minne,” Dhalion whispered and tilted into the touch. “Caen me a’baethe?” His reply was a bubbling coo, and he placed his lips gently against his son’s forehead. 

“Would you - ? Are you hungry? Would you like something to drink?” Jaskier was thoroughly enchanted by this elegant creature, with his pointed elven ears sticking out of his feathery white mane and his glittering blue eyes the colour of sea sparkle. 

“I don’t wish to intrude.”

“That ship sailed when you gave me your son,” Lambert grumbled. “Have something to eat.”

Dhalion blinked. “Some water, and fruit, if there’s any free.”

“Of course, of course.” 

While Jaskier disappeared to collect the requested food, Lambert found Dhalion one of his bigger shirts and the caladrius accepted it with a small smile of thanks. He sat down with his son inside the pen and Lambert watched them together until Jaskier returned with a small bowl of sliced fruit and some watered down wine. “Here,” the bard placed the offerings carefully inside the pen. “There’s more, if you need it.” He took up a seat in another armchair. An hour went by without a word, only Cal’s happy gurgles as he offered various toys to Dhalion and up towards Lambert too. 

Finally, Lambert spoke. “Why are you here, Dhalion?” He was pretty certain he knew the answer, but it was a good starting point for the plethora of other questions he had.

“I stayed away for as long as I could, but I… the darkness is overwhelming sometimes. I needed a little light again.” He finished the slices of apple and orange - seeds and all - before sipping lightly at the wine.

“You said you healed a soldier on the way here. Did he hurt you?”

“Ahh, no, well, I suppose in a way,” Dhalion looked up now; blue eyes flickered from Lambert to Jaskier and then back again. “It’s the way my healing magic works. We absorb the wound, or the illness, into ourselves and then we fly above the clouds to disperse it. I’m not entirely sure how it works, I was very young when the last of the elders died off, but I know the grip of Chaos is much weaker up there.”

“So, that part of the legend’s true,” Jaskier whispered. After Vesemir had discovered Cal’s origins, Jaskier had obviously read as much as he could. “I have so many questions, but you look exhausted. Perhaps you would like to stay for a few days? Rest, eat, spend some time with Cal. We can have a room made up for you just down the hall.”

Dhalion, clearly taken aback by the offer, looked immediately to Lambert. “I - .”

“If you say you don’t wish to intrude one more time,” the Witcher raised an eyebrow, leaving the threat hanging. “Stay. I have questions too. But Jaskier’s right, you look worse than the ass end of a Chort. And if you’re worried about getting snatched by a sorcerer again, don’t be. They’re not welcome here.” 

“I would be most grateful.”

Jaskier left briefly again to have the room made up, before returning to spend the rest of the afternoon in Dhalion’s company. It had never occurred to him really how _harrowing_ it must be to lose a child to destiny; a child that was clearly very much loved and _wanted._ And yet, Dhalion didn’t want to take him away. Jaskier _did_ have a thousand questions, but they could wait. As the moon rose high above the gabled rooftops of Novigrad, Dhalion helped Lambert tuck Cal amongst his blankets and pillows, before retiring to the privacy of his own quarters with more fruit. The parting was reluctant, but he knew from watching his son and Lambert from afar, that he was more than safe with his adopted father nearby.

Lambert collected the trail of white feathers he left behind and tucked them into his trunk. He had never dealt with a caladrius before, but he meditated near the door that night with his sword nearby just in case.

***

Eskel arrived at Posada barely a day before the festival was due to take place. Predictably, the little village was deserted, with not a single wreath or keg of mead in sight. The tavern was almost empty, and the innkeeper actually looked _happy_ to see him. A familiar face with a pocket full of orens. “Ahh, your usual then, Witcher?”

“A smaller room. There’ll only be two of us this year.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

“Oh, no, it - ,” Eskel blinked when he realised a _human_ had just expressed _empathy_ for him. Towards him. _At him._ It took a moment for his brain to regather itself, “- I, uh, they’re just staying safely behind some city walls.”

“Wise,” the innkeeper nodded and pulled a key out from beneath the bar. He was an older man, Eskel noticed for the first time; his hair was greying, his skin was a weathered brown, but his eyes were bright and kindly. “Here, it’s smaller, but still comfortable and clean. I’ll put some stew on for tonight, and there’ll be bacon in the morning.”

“Uh, thank you, I appreciate it.” Feeling just a _tad_ overwhelmed, Eskel shouldered his bags and climbed the stairs at the back to find the room. The bed itself was still broad enough to take two people at a squeeze, and as promised, the sheets were fresh, the floors swept and all the surfaces clean. With so few clientele, the innkeeper and his family had set to maintenance rather than idleness. Eskel could respect that. After a bath and some laundry, he settled by the open window to read until the sun set and then headed down to eat stew and bread at the bar. 

_Geralt didn’t arrive._

In fact, he didn’t arrive the next day, or the next. Every few hours Eskel pulled his compass out of his pack and said Geralt’s name. The arrow settled each time pointing south-west, and then true west. _Still alive._ Eskel’s purse grew lighter. By the third day, Eskel packed his bags and left the room.

_Geralt wasn’t coming._

Of course he wasn’t. There were more important things for him to be doing, and - 

Eskel stared down into the bottom of his tankard and tried to push the intrusive thoughts out of his mind. He traced the woodgrain of the bar next to his elbow and mentally listed all the valid reasons for Geralt to miss their rendezvous. The tavern was fuller than it had been over the last few days, with a retinue of Kaedweni soldiers pausing in their march south to join the rest of their battalion; one last drink before they threw themselves into the gnashing jaws of Nilfgaard. Their noise - and their rather unpleasant odour - probably explained why Eskel missed the door opening, but there was no mistaking the gentle bloom of arenaria and spring rains as it seated itself next to him. And even then, had there been any doubt, a familiar rumble accompanied it. “Sorry I’m late.”

Eskel looked up quickly and did his level best to not look _too_ heartburstingly happy. “Nice of you to drop by.”

“How much trouble am I in?”

“It’s just me you stood up, everyone else is safely tucked away in Novigrad.”

“Hmm. I would’ve stopped by if I’d known.” Geralt called the innkeeper over for a tankard of ale accompanied by a generous helping of bread, and while he ate Eskel took a moment to just _look_ at him, because he looked good. In fact, to use a phrase of Jaskier’s, he looked _damn fine._ The undercut was back, with a well-groomed beard that excited Eskel far more than it really had any right to; Geralt’s eyes were bright and his body robust from what Eskel could see. Healthy. _Safe._ “At least wait until we get upstairs.” Geralt spoke softly, eyes flickering discreetly down to Eskel’s lap.

“I’ve been waiting _three days_ , Geralt. Where’ve you been?” Eskel growled, because it was the easiest way to cover his bashful flush. Getting an erection at the mere _sight_ of Geralt, with all his clothes _still on_ was definitely a new low. It was like being a damned trainee again; Eskel used to have to make a hurried excuse to hide in a cupboard after watching Geralt train, and even then the dickhead would tease him with that thick ass in their bunk later. Back then, he hadn’t the first idea what to _do_ with that ass, and there hadn’t exactly been an instructor for that kind of thing. Why was he getting flustered _now?_ It was the fucking beard, wasn’t it? _Ale. Eskel needed more ale._

“I got held up in Skellige. The Wild Hunt chased her from there too, and then this misshapen creature returned in her stead.”

“You think it might be Ciri?” Safer ground. Eskel’s fervour settled to a dull simmer.

Geralt sighed. “I don’t know. I’m going to head to Velen from here. Yen thinks it could be, I -.”

“What, Geralt?” Eskel could sense Geralt’s distress before even the scent of it soured the air, because it felt like his own heart constricted. His hand slid across the bar and his fingers brushed across one of Geralt’s gloved hands; no more than a discreet flutter of contact.

“The Hunt’s closing in. We’re going to take the creature to Kaer Morhen. Yen thinks it’s a curse. It could be Ciri,” Geralt shifted his hand closer to Eskel’s, because he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself in his big arms and sleep there for a year and a day. The day would have to do. “I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”

Eskel’s breath caught in his chest, because Geralt was asking for help. _Geralt._ Who had suffered these past few years silently on his own; he took the beatings, the manipulation, the death threats, the political machinations. Geralt saw it as his burden to bear. So, Kaedweni observers be damned, Eskel took Geralt’s hand and squeezed his fingers. “Then we’ll be waiting, sword in hand.”

Geralt’s eyes shone like molten gold; the weathered corners wrinkled and that faint, beautiful smile unspooled itself across his lips. The moment hung between them - airy, light - and then that soft smile turned itself into a wry little smirk. He had promised himself one day. _One day_ with his loved ones. They weren’t all here, but there was plenty of Eskel to enjoy in the meantime. “Is that an offer for tonight, or - ?”

“Dear gods, you're worse than Lambert sometimes,” Eskel knocked back his ale. “Innkeep, this cur needs a bath. Run it up to the same room.” He blinked then at Geralt’s grimace. “What?”

“Worse than Lambert. Ouch.” He gave Eskel a shove as he slipped from his bar stool and swaggered in his usual Geralt way towards the stairs; Eskel managed to keep himself from staring at his ass for all of about four paces, and for once he was actually _grateful_ for the amount of noise the soldiers would generate into the night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be smut on the horizon, my friends. Eskel needs some Geralt love, but alas, I did not have another thousand words in me today, so we'll leave it for the next chapter.


	11. Destiny's Price

Eskel watched Geralt sink into the hot water from the other side of the room while telling himself that he’d give Geralt some space to unwind, and _not_ jump his bones while he was in the gods-damned water. He busied his hands with the bags in the far corner of the room, mumbling about ingredients they were both missing as he built a mental list. After six months, he wanted nothing more than to press his face to Geralt’s neck and just _breathe him in_ ; he wanted to touch every inch of skin at the same time and listen to the excited flutter of his heart and - 

“Eskel.”

He looked up from the alchemy flasks he was idly sorting through. “Hm?”

“Get in.” Geralt lifted his feet from the water and kicked his legs over the sides. It was a wanton sprawl that Eskel was very used to seeing, but the White Wolf was watching him with those golden eyes and that _head tilt_ ; he was standing at the edge of the bath before he even registered his feet were moving. He kicked his boots off, wriggled out his trousers and chucked his shirt on the floor before stepping into the space Geralt had given him. It was a tight fit - realistically enough room for one and three-quarter Witcher - but that was the _point_ , wasn’t it? As Eskel lowered into the steaming water, his knees gathered beneath him, he was encased by Geralt’s thighs and flooded with the thick scent of him. His cock was already half hard, and the tumid, purple head of it floated just below the waterline as his eyes fixated on the lines and bristles of his lover’s face. Geralt reached up and took his chin. “C’mere.”

The water sloshed over the sides as Eskel folded against Geralt’s chest, their mouths falling together, tongues licking passed eager lips. Eskel moaned and clung onto Geralt’s shoulders for dear life; partly because he was crammed into the damned bath at an odd angle and didn’t really have much purchase, but also because a fervent, anxious part of his brain needed the assurance that this wasn’t just another dream. The last three nights had been _filled_ with wistful dreams of Geralt. Warm hands slid around his waist and down his back until they reached the curves of his ass, squeezing, pulling their hips together properly so that Eskel’s swollen cock pressed against its companion. Eskel flopped onto Geralt’s chest - one of the few men capable of making him feel _cradled_ \- and talked into the side of his neck. “I was really worried you’d forgotten, or - .”

“Made a promise,” Geralt spoke softly, a gentle warmth to his voice that melted Eskel’s insides to liquid gold. “I’m not that man anymore. Wouldn’t let you down.” Gentle hands continued their slow exploration until Eskel’s skin prickled with pleasure and his heart beat a neat little rhythm inside his chest. With a gentle nudge, Geralt guided Eskel back far enough to wash them both, the cloth passing quickly over his own chest, around his neck and under his arms, before he rinsed and lathered it up again. This time though he used the flats of his palms, smoothing the soap over Eskel’s tanned skin with a firm pressure that kneaded into each muscle. After a little bit of shuffling, Geralt gathered his feet back into the bath and slid them between Eskel’s legs to pull him close. More water sloshed over onto the rough hewn inn floor, but he paid it no mind. There was a whole lot of Witcher in not a lot of tub space - well, not as much as there _should_ be. “Not been eating enough. Kneel up.”

“A man could become self-conscious if people continue to remark on his wei--aahh!” Eskel latched onto the edge of the tub as Geralt’s thumbs passed over his nipples, hardening them quickly to peaks. His cock throbbed as it emerged out of water, thick and straining, desperate for those hands to wander lower. That desperation refocused on Geralt’s _mouth_ when he pressed a heated kiss to the centre of his abdomen, hunching over to reach what he could. Soaped palms slid up his thighs, the heels kneading in wide circles and leaving the fine, dark hair in swirls of suds in their wake. Eskel groaned and felt Geralt’s lips unfurl into a smirk against his stomach when he _finally_ palmed his balls. “Mmph.”

Geralt nuzzled into Eskel and his palm undulated slowly, enjoying the heavy weight in the cradle of his hand and the musky scent of the precome beading at the head of Eskel’s cock now it was free from the water. “Always forget how nice everything looks down here. And they call me the pretty boy.” Geralt teased as he leaned back to admire the curve of Eskel’s cock; the ferocity of his arousal made it quiver, the thick veins spidering up to a round, purple head begging for a tongue, and it twitched violently when Geralt’s fingers slid up the cleft of Eskel’s ass. “Let me rinse off. Go get comfortable.”

The bed was as cozy as it was every year, with clean sheets and a few furs thrown on top for good measure. The furs were always a bit hit and miss; they could be full of lice, threadbare or unkempt, and more often than not Eskel kicked them onto the floor whenever he was lucky enough to sleep with a roof over his head. These ones were fresh though - potentially from the current season of hunting - and he rubbed his face into them in the knowledge they’d soon smell of him and Geralt. He flopped over onto his back when he heard the creak of floorboards; Geralt toweled himself down roughly and rang the water out of his hair, before climbing languidly onto the bed between Eskel’s thighs. “Now, where was I?”

“Here.” Eskel pointed at his chest and then splayed his arms out, expectant of worship. Well, he had waited _three gods-damned days_. One eyebrow rose when Geralt smirked at him, but leaned down and placed slow, indulgent kisses across his chest. He sucked and laved at the firm muscle, working his way across to a nipple. “Mmm.” Eskel’s eyes slid closed, the hands that kneaded happily at the blankets lifted to scratch through Geralt’s beard as he worked lower. The moment his cock pressed past Geralt’s lips was fucking transcendent, and Eskel bit back a strangled groan.

“Hmm.” Geralt hummed around his mouthful and a half; the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the explosion of his pupils, until only golden highlights remained around the edges, betrayed his pleasure. Eskel’s fingers tangled in his hair as he sucked his fill; mouth watering as salty precome spurted to the back of his throat. He drew off to slide his tongue down the thick vein winding from head to groin, his nose pressing to the crease of Eskel’s thigh in search of the natural musk that stirred fire in his belly. “Fuck. I’ve missed you.” A warm tongue lapped over the seam of Eskel’s balls, and Geralt’s body clenched with the need to join. He wasn’t riding a horse for at least a day, which meant he could ride _Eskel_ as hard as he wanted tonight. “Got oil?”

“Of course I fucking have,” Eskel rumbled, but when he went to roll over Geralt placed a palm in the centre of his stomach with a slight shake of the head and slipped off the bed himself. Meticulously organised as always, it took Geralt about five seconds to find the familiar vial of oil in Eskel’s alchemy bag, and he returned quickly to straddle Eskel’s thighs. Geralt liked it when those huge paws prepped him, so he dropped the vial into Eskel’s palm, lowered his hips until the length of his cock pressed into the grooves of his abdomen, and occupied himself by nipping and sucking at Eskel’s exposed throat. The pop of cork and glass preceded the slick glide of Eskel’s fingers down his cleft, and Geralt spread his knees as far as they’d go, grunting and moaning as Eskel went a little further and teased across the back of his balls. “You sound good, Wolf.”

“You taste good,” Geralt murmured in reply, arching his back insistently to guide Eskel’s fingers back to his hole. The first press of a blunt forefinger earned itself an appreciative sigh, and Geralt rocked back into the glorious pressure of it sliding deeper. Experienced, and relaxed from his bath, his body opened easily to Eskel’s insistence each time a new finger was added. “Mmm. Fuck. That’s enough.”

“Just three fingers?”

“I like a challenge,” Geralt gave Eskel’s throat one final nip before he sat up; Eskel slicked his cock until it glistened and Geralt took hold of it to line himself up. The stretch of the head was always the best bit. It bordered pain, like a deep, penetrating sting that coiled at the base of the spine. His body clenched and relaxed around it, Eskel’s hands stroking his thighs, soothing. “I think I forgot how -- ahh.” He lowered himself a little further, and Eskel grunted as Geralt’s body squeezed him needily.

“Relax, Geralt. Take it slow.”

“Are you gentling me?” Despite the hoarse undertones, Geralt’s voice coloured with amusement and a toothy grin unwound itself across his lips. “How very noble.”

Eskel lifted his hips just to watch that shit-eating grin evaporate into startled awe, cross-eyed, mouth agape. He settled back down with a wry grin of his own, withdrawing those few inches, and Geralt whined in tortured pleasure. “C’mon, wolf. Three days.”

“Mmm.” Geralt smirked, eyes hazy, and lowered himself slowly to take the rest of Eskel. _I love a challenge._ When would he fucking learn? It felt like Eskel was competing with his lungs for space, and he spread his knees wide, breathing deeply as his body eased around the girth of it. “ _Gods._ ”

“Flattered.” Eskel croaked, only to have a palm press over his face. Amber eyes narrowed, and he took Geralt’s hips, rocking his own very subtly. It was enough to earn a choked groan, and then Geralt was moving of his own accord, palm dropping away to grip the sheets beside Eskel’s head. The muscles of his torso bunched and flexed as he ground himself against Eskel’s hips, teeth gritting, a low, feral growl building in his chest. One big hand curled around the length of his prick, and he looked down to watch the purple crown burst through the hollow of Eskel’s fist with each of his thrusts.

The tavern was loud. The Kaedweni soldiers were merrily braying their national anthem amidst clashing tankards and scraping furniture. Geralt tilted his head back and smiled mischievously at the ceiling. _Hmm._ It was as good an opportunity as any and, fuck, if the next few months didn’t go well… _he didn’t want to think about it._ Instead, Geralt leaned over Eskel and began to move a little faster. It took very little effort to find the burgeoning noise deep in his chest, because as the goliath prick inside him burst through his insides with more force it struck all the right chords. “Eskel, _fuck - ahh, Eskel._ Nnnf, yeah - _fuck._ ”

Geralt felt the heat rise in Eskel’s chest beneath him; the escalation from rapid breathing to fevered pants and the tightening grip of wide palms on his hips. " _Eskel - ahh, please - so good._ ” His only warning was a low, rumbling growl deep in the broad chest beneath him. In the next instant, he was on his back, his legs over broad shoulders. Those amber eyes were _feral_ and Geralt’s insides damn near twisted in excitement. “Fuck me, _please._ ” Eskel shoved his hips forward and buried so deep it knocked the air out of Geralt’s lungs; he barely had enough to gasp out more loud moans of encouragement.

The pace was frantic and animalistic. Eskel clung onto him as if he might wriggle free, and the louder Geralt was the more relentless Eskel became. He bit and sucked marks into Geralt’s throat and shoulders, hot breath puffing across pale skin as the gentle man lost himself to the beast. Unlocked from its cage by the simple key of Geralt’s vocal pleasure. _Oh fuck and it felt good._ Geralt arched into every thrust, scrabbling for purchase on whatever part of Eskel he could find with his legs folded back. Eskel’s prick was like a rod of steel fresh from the forge, hot and unyielding; it demanded Geralt’s first orgasm without remorse. Eskel pulled out and rolled Geralt onto his front when his cock stopped twitching. “Fuck, _Eskel - yes, yes -_.” Eskel took his wrists and shoved Geralt’s thighs apart with his knees; Geralt arched his spine and presented his ass, hole gaping and ready for when Eskel shoved back inside. “ _Fuck, how can you feel - ahh - bigger - mmm - nfnngh._ ”

Eskel couldn’t help it. The desire to breed Geralt into the mattress overpowered any other thought in his head. He pinned his lover’s hands to the small of his back and yanked him back into each thrust, spearing him deep, balls pressing to the back of his. Geralt continued to growl, moan and gasp as Eskel pounded into him, his vision whiting out, overwhelmed; his pleasure cresting again just in time for Eskel to join him. Eskel pumped him full, grinding his hips forward, grip on Geralt’s wrists tightening to keep his back arched and his ass presented. 

As Eskel’s senses returned, his grip loosened and he pulled his softening cock free; the evidence of his fervour spilled down the back of Geralt’s balls and he rumbled in appreciation, drawing a finger down the seam and eliciting a shiver of pleasure from his spent lover. The noise downstairs was raucous, but he felt exhausted enough to sleep through it. A gentle palm smoothed up Geralt’s back as it heaved steadying breaths. “Alright?”

“Yes,” Geralt whispered, flopping over onto his side to accept the sloppy kiss offered. Their tongues pressed together lazily, Eskel sucked and nipped at Geralt’s lower lip, before nuzzling against his nose; he couldn't help but rub the side of his face across the beard that had stoked his interest so swiftly. 

“Geralt of Rivia, I love you.” He murmured, taking a huge breath, flooding his every sense with _Geralt._

“Mm,” amber eyes glowed in the fading light, and Geralt wrapped himself around Eskel’s chest. He kissed his worship into tanned skin and when they were both ready, they made love again; slower, taking their time to scent and kiss every inch of the lover before them. The following day they would have to return to the Path. Geralt would head to Velen, and Eskel towards Kaer Morhen as requested, but now, they could love each other as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

***

After a few days of rest, Dhalion appeared brighter and more settled. On the second evening, Jaskier peeked through the crack in the spare room door and saw a beautiful bird nested in the centre of the bed, surrounded by blankets; its head tilted down into the fluffed feathers of its chest, golden highlights shining in the late evening sunlight. _Beautiful._ How could a mage harm such a majestic creature? Oh, of course. Immortality. At all costs. He left their avian guest to snooze and ensured he had fresh fruit awaiting him in the morning.

The renovations to the Chameleon were almost finished. The dwarves brought in a few relatives to help with the final touches, including a familiar face. “Ahh, Jaskier!” Zoltan beamed when he swaggered through the door.

The bard squinted, and then the memory of Flotsam, with its pig-headed commander and dodgy, rotten scaffold, floated to the forefront of his mind. “Zoltan, fantastic to see you again.”

“From spy t’ bar owner, impressive turn around,” the dwarf grinned, all crooked teeth and warm, sparkling eyes. “No more nooses in your future.”

Priscilla, who was sitting at the bar pouring over receipts, looked up abruptly. “Noose? As in hanging?”

Jaskier smiled, sheepish. “Oh, it’s a long story.”

She swivelled around on the stool. “I’m all ears.”

So, between them, Zoltan and Jaskier recounted the events of the year before. The kingslayer, the Blue Stripes, the Scoia’tael. About five minutes in she threw up a hand and demanded their silence long enough to grab her notebook and a quill. Once Zoltan had finished his part - escorting Geralt into the forests, meeting with Iorveth, the other elven rebels, Geralt’s fight with Letho - Jaskier continued the story into the rest of the year. Henselt, Roche and his knowledge of Loc Muinne from what Geralt had told him. She didn’t stop scribbling the whole time they were talking, only pausing them occasionally to double check a fact or name. When Jaskier finally finished, a pint of something bitter and alcoholic in his hands, she sat in silence and studied her notes for some time before speaking. “And let me get this straight,” she angled the quill towards him. “You haven’t written a single ballad, a single _poem_ , about that.”

“Well, I’ve started writing my memoirs, I’ve written a few ditties here and there but I’ve been rather busy with other things, and -,” Jaskier rubbed the back of his neck when she regarded him in shock. “Such a story needs a more gifted troubadour than I.”

“Well,” she closed her journal over dry ink. “I think we have our performance for opening night. Leave it with me.”

In addition to providing material for the first few _months_ of the Chameleon’s lifespan, Zoltan ingratiated himself to Priscilla through his bawdy sense of humour, appreciation for fine alcohol and knowledge of the tavern circuit. He was also a dab hand with a hammer and a saw, and seemed quite proficient in removing unwanted guests at Lambert’s side. A few days later, she informed Jaskier that she was hiring him permanently. They needed someone around with a knowledge of carpentry for repairs, and she rather liked him anyway. So Zoltan joined the motley crew of the Chameleon’s staff.

The opening night was a roaring success. The performers - theatre, dance and song - were a cut above the rest and a credit to Priscilla’s knowledge of the theatrical circuit. Jaskier was thoroughly entranced for the entire evening, and spent most of it either staring open mouthed at a rendition of his own adventures with his band of Witchers, or accepting drinks from patrons to congratulate him for ‘turning the place around’. The only thing - _people -_ missing were the rest of his family. Eskel, Geralt, Vesemir. So Jaskier drank and smiled and tried to enjoy himself. Lambert had to carry him upstairs to bed towards the end of the night, warding off sloppy kisses until they reached the privacy of Jaskier’s bedroom, at which point he accepted the valiant attempt at affection until Jaskier fell asleep on top of him, snoring into the soft silk sheets below. Lambert undressed him the rest of the way, tucked him in and curled up at his side.

Lambert felt _odd._ Like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, like he wanted to _smile_ all the time rather than scowl, like his future wasn’t just this bleak well of misery that he had no choice in. When he spoke to Buttercup about it one evening, he’d smiled brightly, placed a kiss on his nose, and informed him that this was what _happiness_ felt like. When life was good, when demons weren’t hiding in every shadow, when there was always food on the table and your loved ones were close. _That_ was happiness. Simple, beautiful _happiness._ “Hm,” Lambert sniffed, arms folded. “Think Eskel, Geralt and the old man could have it one day?”

“I hope so, my love,” Jaskier fluttered his fingers over Cal’s face, and the babe giggled. “Hopefully soon.”

With Priscilla and Zoltan essentially running the Chameleon, Jaskier turned his attention to Dhalion. Their guest was an enigma. Potentially the last of his kind, he presented a unique opportunity to prepare for Cal’s future. Jaskier pulled out all of the notes he’d taken from the library of Kaer Morhen, and sat down with the caladrius one afternoon to pour over them.

“When you heal someone, you absorb the injury into yourself?” He started with the easy questions.

“Yes. Illness, injury. It transfers from the victim to me.”

“Can you do that as a humanoid too?”

“Yes,” Dhalion blinked down at the sketches in Jaskier’s lap, and then pointed at them tentatively. “May I?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Hmm,” Dhalion smiled as he leafed through. “These are very good.”

“I am a master of the seven liberal arts, dear heart.” Jaskier beamed proudly.

“I’m not familiar, but… it’s almost like looking at a family portrait.” Dhalion paused on one of the sketches and tilted his head. “I think this may be my father.”

“Your fa - ?” Jaskier’s eyes widened, and he leapt out of his seat to sit on the arm of Dhalion’s chair. “This was hundreds of years old.”

“Yes.” The caladrius nodded without any further explanation, so Jaskier prompted.

“How long do you - your kind - how long do they live?”

“It’s difficult to say,” Dhalion traced his finger along the lines of the sketch’s feathers as if refreshing his memory. “Time begins to lose meaning after a while. My father passed away roughly three hundred years ago in human time.”

“Long enough for time to lose meaning, right, well,” Jaskier wasn’t _quite_ sure what to say to that, and he gazed pensively down at Caladrius. “So, he could outlive us all?”

“Almost certainly,” Dhalion smiled down at his son and cooed. The babe beamed in response and bubbled back, waving his blocks triumphantly. 

“Alright, next question, and feel free to keep your trade secrets, of course,” Jaskier shuffled through his notes. “The death thing. Legend has it that a caladrius looks away from the dying. You don’t heal them.”

“We cannot heal those who have already been marked by death,” Dhalion passed the sketches back and gathered his legs further into the armchair. “It’s an exchange. Death always demands its due.”

“What - what does that mean?”

“One soul for another. If a caladrius heals a human marked by death, they give their life in return. We sacrifice all those we could have healed in the future too.”

“And how do you know a soul is near death?”

“I can see it. It’s a very limited sight of the future. Only that soul, only the moment of death.”

“I see.” Jaskier rested a palm over his papers and Dhalion slipped from the armchair to sit inside the pen with his son. They spent the rest of the evening discussing what Cal might’ve inherited; Dhalion wasn’t entirely sure. It was likely that Cal might exhibit some abilities to heal, although this should be discouraged. Without the ability to take on an avian form, he’d be unable to dispel injuries and have to endure it himself. _Something to keep in mind._

Dhalion spent the next few days consuming his body weight in fruit and playing with his son. Lambert told him stories of Cal’s first few months - his teething, his first steps, his exploration of new foods - and Dhalion listened with rapt attention. It was the very picture of familial tranquility. The caladrius watched his son giggle and kiss his adopted family with a permanent, warm smile. Destiny had been kind and provided his son with a future that he would not be able to provide himself. Without his mate, he had nothing to give. No home, no ability to feed him or keep him clean. Just a nomadic existence built on pain and war. But here, with this odd collection of Witchers and bards, dwarves and songstresses, Cal would grow up loved and protected. 

The future looked truly bright.

Until destiny, fickle and petulant, decided that she required a sacrifice for such a beatific offering. 

Just as he was preparing to leave - there was still a war going on, his services were needed - Dhalion looked at Lambert on his final evening, and suddenly went ashen grey. The Witcher blinked in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier looked up from his notes. “Dhalion?”

The caladrius stood abruptly and looked away, his head bowed.

_He looked away._

Jaskier’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Dhalion, look at Lambert.”

“I cannot.”

“Look at him.”

 _"Jaskier_ , I cannot.” Dhalion’s voice broke.

“Why?” Lambert stood now, brow creased in concern. “Is someone going to explain to me what the fuck is going on?”

“A caladrius can't look at someone near death.” Jaskier left his chair on unsteady feet. He could barely breathe. His heart felt lodged in his throat. 

“What the f - ? What’s that supposed to mean? I feel fine.” Lambert patted down his torso, placed a hand against his forehead like he’d seen the others do to Buttercup whenever he got a cold or something. _Laughable, really._ “Dhalion, you better fucking tell me what this is about.”

“It’s difficult to explain,” Dhalion swallowed. “It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I dunno, _describe_ it.”

“I can show you.” Dhalion lifted those blue eyes slowly; they brimmed with tears. _Oh fuck._ That wasn’t a good look.

“Fine, show me.” Lambert lifted his hands from his side, but he didn’t have a chance to get comfortable, because Dhalion lifted one of his own and placed it firmly over Lambert’s forehead.

_His breath fogged in front of his face as he stepped out into the courtyard of Kaer Morhen. The White Frost. It seeped through into his very soul. The sword in his hand was a familiar weight._

The image changed.

_The wraiths encircled him. He stood between Ciri and death. He couldn’t fail. His Quen shields fractured under the impact of their swords as the blows rained down on him. Too many. There were too many of them. He was exhausted. His limbs were leaden, but he continued to duck, dive and parry, landing fizzing blows across their spectral forms. Fighting for his life. Fighting for what felt like an eternity._

_The others were fighting too. Geralt had rallied as many as he could, but Eredin was strong._

_And then he turned too slowly. Moved one fraction of a second too late._

_The blade sliced into his chest. It tore through one of his lungs and erupted out of his back. Lambert could feel the blood bubbling up in his throat, choking him. The wraith withdrew its sword nonchalantly and left his body to crumple to the floor. Discarded. And walked away._

_He could see starlight._

Dhalion’s hand fell away, the tears running freely down his cheeks, and Lambert gasped. His hands pressed his chest and his throat. He could still _taste_ the blood, but there wasn’t any. Buttercup was there in an instant to prop him up, because all colour had drained from his face. With effort, he staggered across to an armchair and swallowed the bile rising up from the pit of his stomach. Every breath shivered out of his chest, clawing free as if the blade was still lodged in it.

“Lambert, speak to me.” Buttercup’s voice, tremulous and frightened.

“Fuck,” Lambert sucked in a deep breath. “I’m going to die.”


	12. This Is Not Goodbye

“No, no, this can’t happen - it won’t happen,” Jaskier cupped Lambert’s jaw in both hands and tilted his head up; his skin remained the colour of bone meal, and those amber eyes glistened with… with fear. “What did you see?”

“The Wild Hunt,” Lambert whispered. “They were attacking Kaer Morhen.”

“The Wild Hunt,” Jaskier repeated, scrambling through frantic thoughts in search of a tiny iota of information that would help him understand. The memory pieced together slowly. Flotsam. A nightmare in the middle of the night. Geralt kneeling in a pool of moonlight. A battered volume provided by a red-haired sorceress. _The Wild Hunt._ “They’re… the group chasing Ciri. Geralt told me about them. They’re… elves, or wraiths, or both. I can’t remember.”

Dhalion folded back onto the floor. He gathered Cal into his lap and stroked his platinum blonde hair. “Led by Eredin Bréacc Glas, they return to the world of the Aen Seidhe in search of slaves for the Alder Folk. The unicorns of their world destroyed their capability to materialise fully in this world, but they can still manifest as wraiths.”

“What do they want with Ciri?” Jaskier sat down on the arm of Lambert’s chair, one hand still carding through his short hair as if trying to coax the warmth back into his skin.

“Something to do with her Elder Blood,” Lambert murmured. “It’s… complicated, but they’ve been hunting her since at least Geralt’s death in Rivia. If they’re heading to Kaer Morhen that can only mean she’s run out of hiding places.”

None of them spoke for a while after that. The silence punctuated occasionally by Cal’s quiet gurgles as he fiddled with one of his linen dolls, occasionally twining a small hand in Dhalion’s long white hair. Finally, Jaskier spoke. “What if you don’t go? What if you stay here? We know it’s going to happen, how it’s going to happen.”

Dhalion shook his head. “Death always exacts its price,” he looked up slowly. “If not Lambert, then someone else in his stead. Someone in the vicinity of where he should have met his end.”

“Eskel, Geralt, Vesemir, Ciri,” Lambert murmured their names, almost breathless. They’d all be there. _In the vicinity._ If he remained in Novigrad, like a coward, then someone else would pay his price for him. He rose unsteadily from the chair and walked towards the door.

“Where’re you going?” Jaskier stood abruptly too, reaching out to take his elbow.

“Don’t worry, Buttercup. I just need some air. I won’t be long.”

The patrons crowding the downstairs of the Chameleon didn’t cast Lambert a second glance as he walked through their midst and out the front door, nor when he scaled the building to reach its tall, gabled roof and find a spot by the chimney to sit and gaze into the expanse of the open sky. The sun was long gone, leaving behind a sky of blue velvet dappled with twinkling diamonds. Lambert traced the outline of the constellations as Eskel had taught him many years ago, but found no comfort in their shapes. Out here the clutching terror of watching his own death loosened its grip on his throat and he could breathe again. 

Lambert had never considered his death. Not that he thought he was fucking immortal. Death followed Witchers like a bad smell. It was a possibility every single day. But he’d expected it to happen suddenly; a fiend ripping his head off, or a necrophage tearing his intestines out. Gruesome, abrupt and harsh. A death that mirrored his life. But now he’d seen it. Watched the sword plunge through his chest, felt the blood rise in his throat, gazed at the stars as his vision faded. A palm rested over his heart and Lambert drew in a stuttering sigh.

Four years ago it wouldn’t have bothered him. _Fuck it._ Just another bullshit hand life dealt him. Whatever. He didn’t have anything to live for anyway. But it was different now. Now he had so much. So many people. Cal, Buttercup, Eskel, he even had _Geralt_ , which was fucking unexpected. He would’ve lost that bet. Even the Chameleon, with its loud, stinking patrons and its bawdy music was starting to grow on him. He liked Priscilla, she had a tongue sharper than Aen Seidhe steel and Zoltan was a good laugh. He’d thought - just for a moment - that perhaps the Path wasn’t all he would ever have. That perhaps he could - _fuck_ \- that he could actually be happy.

_Buttercup._

The fear on his face. The tears glittering, unshed, in his eyes. No one had ever cried _over_ Lambert. Fuck, loads of ‘em had cried _because_ of him, but never _over_ him. But of course he would, Buttercup loved him. Had said it clear as day at the top of a waterfall with the moonlight at their back and the sultry summer heat wetting their skin. 

_I love you too, Lambert. Always._

The Witcher rubbed a hand over his face and his palm came away wet. Ignore that. Couldn’t deal with what it meant anyway. Not right now. Without the means to process the turmoil in his head, Lambert defaulted to the one emotion he knew well. The one emotion that had carried him unfalteringly through life and never let him down. It’d never been _snatched_ away, only carefully moderated and occasionally placed in storage. Not like happiness, the traitorous piece of shit, not like love, not like - not like _everything_ he was about to lose. The anger bubbled in his chest without warning; a low, scorching heat that burst out of him in a roar of fury at an unfeeling moon. 

***

Life was unfair. Death wasn’t. Not usually. It didn’t discriminate. It came for noblemen just as it came for the peasant. Dhalion had sat on many a deathbed, and although some of them had been plush and others no more than a straw-stuffed pallet, the end was always the same. No amount of money, no bargaining nor bartering could stay the inevitable. When it was time, _it was time._ That was the natural order of things. _Death was fair._

This was the exception.

Never had an impending death seemed so _unjust._

Lambert walked around the tavern with the weight of it on his shoulders, but he still held and played with their son. He smiled and laughed with him, held his hand as he walked triumphantly around his pen like a conquering lord. The Witcher didn’t allow the near future to trickle through, even though he was quiet, almost non-verbal, for the first few days. Like he was keeping something buried deep that might escape if he opened his mouth too much. 

There was a heart of gold inside the broad chest that Cal dozed on every evening. A heart that had pushed a drunken Witcher to climb a rickety trellis to free a wounded bird; a heart that wouldn’t allow a child to suffer at the hands of destiny; a heart that ached now every time its lover curled close and sobbed quietly into the sheets. Jaskier tried. He tried _really hard_ to swallow it, but Dhalion could practically feel the desolate misery bleeding from his every pore. 

Because there was no chance. No chance that this Witcher would shirk his responsibility and leave someone to die in his stead. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, had it? Because this Witcher - this _man_ \- was loyal to his family, even in the face of certain death. His family would lose a brother, a lover, a loyal guardian; Cal would lose his father. His _true_ father.

Dhalion gazed down into his son’s sparkling blue eyes, listened to the peeling little chuckles of a child brimming with love and happiness, and his heart constricted.

Death, as a rule, was fair.

But _this_ death. This death was cruel.

***

Jaskier found the crow first. It had a small piece of parchment tied to its leg and for a selfish moment he considered slapping it with one of the heavy books on his desk. Maybe if he squashed it flat, or knocked it to the street below, then the message attached to its leg would vanish from existence. Its insistent caws drew Lambert from Cal’s pen, and he carefully untied the twine from its leg.

* * *

Lambert - 

We need you at Kaer Morhen urgently. The Wild Hunt is closing in. Make haste.

Eskel

* * *

_Make haste._ “Sometimes I think he’s reading from Vesemir’s book of ye olde prose.” Lambert smirked, the hint of amusement in his voice suffocated by the realisation that this note marked the beginning of the end.

Jaskier realised it too and immediately pulled him into an embrace. Deceptively strong arms squeezed his chest, and Lambert buried his face in the mop of russet hair rubbing across his beard. “It’s alright, Buttercup. It’s alright.”

“No, no it’s not.” Jaskier sobbed, his voice breaking. His chest and throat were permanently sore from the constant pressure of his building grief. The letter brought the reality crashing down on him, and he shook in his Witcher’s arms. “Please, please give me one more night. One more night to hold you against me. One more night, _please_ , I beg you.”

“Buttercup,” Lambert spoke softly, one rough hand sliding gently beneath a stubbled chin to tilt those cornflower blues up to look at him. “I can never say no to you.” The kiss was so gentle, so _chaste_ , but Jaskier drank it like a dying man marooned in the middle of a desert; he clutched at Lambert’s shirt, gripped his waist, and pushed his face into the curve of his throat, barely able to stutter out his gratitude.

Dhalion took Cal in with him that night. They nested the child down in his usual wrap of blankets and pillows to keep him secure, and the caladrius settled next to him with a contented coo. Lambert couldn’t help but crack a joke, “Don’t sit on him, he’s already fucking hatched.” Dhalion blinked in alarm, feathers ruffled, and then he let off a short, high-pitched trill that sounded oddly like _amusement._ “Well, shit, he does have a sense of humour after all.”

Jaskier took Lambert’s hand and pulled him into their shared room. They fell to the bed, Lambert’s lips and teeth consuming every inch of Jaskier’s neck as he wrenched and kicked their clothes away. It was uncoordinated, fraught even; Buttercup didn’t want to let him go, not even so that he could find the vial of oil stashed away in one of the desk drawers. As Lambert pressed inside him, Buttercup gasped out a desperate sob, lithe thighs wrapped his waist, strong musician’s hands pawed at his shoulders, and Lambert pressed their foreheads together as he rocked his hips slowly. 

There was no rush. It wasn’t about seeking a glorious climax. The release was the last thing on either of their minds. They wanted to hold, and to kiss, and to _feel._ Lambert savoured every glimmer of light, every flash of pleasure, that he saw filter through those beautiful blue eyes, and Jaskier burned inside bright yellow irises the colour… _the colour of buttercups._ His orgasm crept up on him; teased out by the gentle friction of Lambert’s stomach across the underside of his cock and the perfect angle of the prick inside him. Jaskier clung to those broad shoulders as he shuddered through it, mouthing wet kisses over the arch of Lambert’s throat.

When they weren’t making love, Jaskier draped across Lambert’s chest, smoothing his fingers through the soft hair covering his torso. They talked about everything they’d been through together over the last few years, mapping their shared experience to cement the memories. 

Their initial meeting - “Not gunna’ lie, Buttercup. I was going to chuck you off the roof on the first night.”

\- to their very first kiss - “You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, dear heart.” -

\- to the arms that pulled each other back from the abyss. “I thought I’d lost myself in that prison cell.” -

\- “I would’ve jumped if you hadn’t been there.” -

\- and the enchanting night lit by spring bonfires and sea sparkle. “Do I win the prize for most romantic Witcher?”

“No contest,” Jaskier paused. “Well, Eskel _might_ give you a run for your money.”

“Oh yeah, no, he should take the winnings.”

They talked about Eskel a lot that night. Their rock, their anchor. Lambert made Jaskier promise to take him off the Path when he was gone. He deserved better. Deserved happiness. The loss would break him, but he would recover and the rest of his life was worth _more_ than death and darkness. Eskel was worth _so much more_ than the lonely life of a Witcher. Jaskier broke down. Lambert cradled him until the tears ebbed away to deep, quivering breaths. 

When Jaskier was ready, they made love again. And again. It didn’t matter who took the lead, just that their bodies were joined, the heat of each other their comfort long into the early hours of the morning. Lambert kissed away the sorrow, nuzzled his scent into soft skin and said ‘I love you’ until his throat grew hoarse. When sunlight spilled through the crack in the curtains, Jaskier stirred from his light slumber against Lambert’s chest. “No… no, it’s too soon.”

“It’ll always be too soon,” Lambert whispered as he pressed a kiss to tear-streaked cheeks and gently unwound himself from clinging limbs. “Go wake Cal and Dhalion. I need to do my final checks.” 

His swords and armour had never felt so heavy. Usually a comforting weight tugging down his shoulder, the two blades on his back felt like shackles. As Jaskier dressed Cal in his sapphire doublet, Lambert carried his bags down to his bay gelding and strapped everything into place. He wouldn’t need much to get him to Kaer Morhen, but he planned to make one stop on his way.

“Have you got everything?” Jaskier called from the stable doors, Cal clutched to his chest.

“Think so,” Lambert tugged a strap on his saddlebags and then walked over, swallowing the lump building in his throat. Words just weren’t enough. He grit his teeth against the quiver building in his lower lip and smoothed a gloved hand over Cal’s head. “You’ll tell him about me, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Jaskier whispered, tears - _endless fucking tears what good were they_ \- prickling in his eyes. “Every day. His memories of you will be as vivid as if you still stood at his side.”

“Thank you.” Lambert leaned forward and kissed Jaskier’s forehead, then his lips. “This is goodbye then.”

“No,” Jaskier choked out, and kissed Lambert desperately, barely able to steady the stuttering sobs in his chest. “This isn’t goodbye. It’s just I love you, until we meet again.” 

“Hm,” Lambert smiled. “‘Til we meet again.” Before he drew away, he kissed his son. “Be good, you hear me?” His reply was a bubbling coo, a sound that he would carry with him into the battle that lay ahead, and then he led his horse out into the streets.

The tears fell freely down Jaskier’s cheeks as he watched Lambert ride out of the Hierarch's Gate. 

***

For a couple of hours, Jaskier believed he would cry for an eternity. His heart torn asunder, never to piece itself back together, but when mournful blue eyes peered at him from the pen, he knew he couldn’t afford to wallow in his own misery. Unlike all those years ago, abandoned on the mountainside, he had responsibilities. People that relied on him. He sat Cal on his lap before the fire and told him stories. Stories about noble Witchers, with prickly attitudes and hearts of gold. Dhalion joined them and sat in the armchair opposite to listen.

“You know, I thought I could have it.” Jaskier whispered as Cal slept against his chest.

“Have what?”

“My family together in one place. Lambert, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir, Cal. Ciri, if she wanted it. All together. Safe, content. That was my one remaining goal in life,” he adjusted the babe into the crook of his arm. “I probably have a decade left, perhaps two. And my foolish heart believed I could achieve it.”

“Two decades?” Dhalion’s brow furrowed in concern.

“Ahh, yes, of course,” Jaskier smiled sadly. “Twenty years. A mere drop in the ocean of time for you, no doubt. I’m an old man by human standards. An old man surrounded by immortals and heroes. I’m grateful for every moment. Perhaps it’s selfish to expect more.”

“It’s never selfish to hope, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier stood slowly, carrying his son across to his nest of blankets. “Perhaps not selfish. But foolish, certainly.”

Cal cried that night. Quiet mewls of despair, as if he could sense Lambert’s growing distance. Big blue eyes searched the room as Jaskier scooped him from the bed and carried him towards the window. “Now, now, my sweet. What are these tears, hm?” The bird nesting in a nearby armchair lifted its head. Jaskier continued, “Do you remember our conversation many months ago? Night is a time for dreams. They’re a portal to those we miss. If you close your eyes, then you can be at his side again.” Cal sniffled. “Do you remember the song? Forgive me if my voice breaks, I fear it will be some time before I find the heart for music again.”

_Lay down your sweet and weary head, the night is falling, you have come to journey’s end, sleep now…_

Dhalion listened to the human bardling sing. And he saw it. Saw what human eyes could not, what a Witcher medallion could sense, but its wearer could not fathom. Wisps of white and blue light ebbed and flowed from the small bundle in Jaskier’s arms; they fluttered through the air, or fell to the ground, like shedding feathers from a bird’s wings. His son loved this bardling just as deeply as he loved his Witcher father, and in the calmness of the night, serenaded by the gentle tenor, his soul took flight.

The following day, Dhalion requested a piece of parchment from Jaskier, before bidding his farewells. The war raged on. People were wounded, ill, dying; Dhalion was needed. And yet, his sacrifices had never felt so meaningless.

***

Lambert made good time and crossed the Mahakham mountains into Aedirn. He had one more stop to make before heading north towards Kaer Morhen. The village itself was destroyed years ago. The few houses that remained were dilapidated husks; cracking stone foundations and rotting roof beams choked by creeping ivy and industrious shrubs.

The graveyard had almost disappeared, the headstones crumbling away to dust, but Lambert didn’t need a headstone to mark his destination. He knew it by heart. With a fistful of hellebore, bryonia and arenaria, Lambert approached the small space four paces to the left of a giant, ancient oak tree. “Sorry it’s been a while.” He murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Been busy. Lots happened over the last few years. Here, I brought you your favourites.” The Witcher crouched down and rested the small bouquet over the familiar patch of ground. “You know, I, uh, I never understood what you said - what you meant, when - ,” he trailed off briefly and cleared his throat with a rumbling cough. “- you need to be who you were made to be, to follow who you are. I thought you were just… trying to comfort a scared kid.” 

It felt so fucking stupid. There probably wasn’t anything of her left. But he just - _he just needed this one last conversation._

“Always thought I was just a fucking asshole,” he huffed a quiet laugh. “Got told that a lot, so thought that was who I was. And they made me into a Witcher, and I didn’t want to be one; I - I did it because that’s all I had. Thought I was worthless otherwise. But, I think I get it now. I get who I am, who I’m meant to be.” He sighed. “Wish I could say I’d see you in a bit, but if I’m honest it’s not likely. So, yeah - hope it’s… you know, nice, where you are. Cover your eyes.” With that, he left the small grave beneath its ancient oak tree, and measured five strides to the right.

He stood before the second grave in silence but for a moment, before undoing the ties of his trousers and pulling his cock free. Head tilted back towards the blue autumn sky, he pissed on the unmarked ground with a satisfied sigh, hips swaying a little to give the parched earth a good soaking. Once the stream petered out, he gave himself a little shake before tucking everything back in place. “See you in a bit for round two, you old bastard.” 

With his final rituals performed, Lambert threw himself up into his saddle and turned his horse towards Kaedwen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titled after:
> 
> [This Is Not Goodbye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqaXXxp2GgE) Sidewalk Prophets


	13. No Courage Without Fear

Kaer Morhen was just as cold and unwelcoming mid-autumn as it was at the beginning of winter. The only small glimmer of light was Eskel’s bright smile and big arms; Lambert fell into them effortlessly once his horse was stabled. The hearth in Eskel’s room was piled high, the fire roaring, and Eskel climbed between Lambert’s legs for a long love-making session that carried them into the early hours of the morning. Lambert latched onto those broad shoulders and arched into the soft, reverent kisses pathing their way across his throat and chest. Cradled in Eskel’s arms, praised in his deep, rumbling voice, it was almost possible for Lambert to _forget_ what lay ahead of him. _Almost._

The reminder came strutting through a portal barely a day later. _Yennefer._ The sorceress was about as welcome as an acute case of the pox, and she made herself _even more_ unpopular by issuing orders to all three of them - Vesemir included - without so much as a polite greeting. Lambert knew this grated on Vesemir the most; their wizened head of school believed that manners cost nothing. Probably one of the reasons he always butted heads with Lambert in the past. She only cemented herself in Vesemir’s bad graces when she teleported one of the ancient oak beds out of the window and left it to shatter in the courtyard below.

“Vesemir, leave it,” Eskel murmured, one large hand placed on his mentor’s shoulder. The voice of reason. There were _very few things_ that got under Vesemir’s skin, but this was his _home_ , and she was vandalising the last few traces he had of his _family._ “I’ll go tidy it up. I might be able to patch it back together.” The fragments were shattered beyond repair, and Eskel stacked them up in a small bonfire.

_Sorceresses._

Yennefer had never done him dirty, but Lambert didn’t like having her near. He told himself that the dimeritium bombs he made and stacked up in the main hall were a preparation for the upcoming battle - technically true - but they would also absolutely fuck over her attempt to make her megascope work. The energy surges would blow out each of the crystals she tried to use. He’d sort it out before it became a hindrance to protecting Ciri, but until the boy wonder arrived, it was quite amusing to listen to her cuss and swear as each of her experiments failed. _Fuck you for upsetting my family, bitch._

Geralt arrived a couple of days later with a malformed creature bound up in his arms. He barely had time to speak to Vesemir before he was traipsing up into the room Yennefer had sequestered herself in and had received his own orders. While Eskel was dispatched to deal with the forktail infestation and collect ingredients, Lambert was asked to charge the phylactery at the Circle of Elements, which meant revisiting the place - and the ogre - that had crushed Voltehre to death all those decades ago. _His life was just getting better and better at the moment._

They discovered his crates of dimeritium bombs using a potestaquisitor. Vesemir claimed age and infirment as a reason not to do the job himself, but Lambert reasoned that he was probably enjoying the sorceresses’ frustration as much as he was. No one invited themselves into Kaer Morhen, broke the furniture and then started spouting orders and got away with it. What made matters worse is that she _wouldn’t tell them what she was up to._ Not even Geralt when he asked. Clearly that conversation _didn’t go well_ either, because Lambert watched him traipse through the main hall drenched in lake water; he’d been up in Yennefer’s tower room and certainly hadn’t come down the conventional way. She must’ve shoved him through a portal.

Without the dimeritium bombs, Yennefer managed to get her megascope working and contacted whoever she needed to and then she dispatched Geralt to assist with preparation tasks. With Vesemir testing Uma’s reflexes and generally cooing over her - because they were all _convinced_ it was Ciri - that meant Geralt turned up at Lambert’s back.

Rather than allow himself to be swallowed by the melancholy of his impending death, Lambert defaulted back to some of his old ways. That meant brewing up a generous helping of moonshine for their evening’s entertainment.

Geralt stopped behind him, hands on his hips. “What’s this? Brewing potions?”

“No. Booze,” Lambert adjusted one of the flasks. “From potato peels.” The entire set up was of his own design; a collection of tubes, flasks, filters and condensers that produced some of the most acutely powerful moonshine on the Continent.

“Mm. For my welcome back feast?”

Lambert smirked. It was a tight, reflexive expression; the amusement was very much dead in his eyes. “Actually, more like my farewell feast…” He trailed off. Not for the first time, he wanted to _tell_ someone. Walking into this by himself was terrifying, but he couldn’t. As soon as Eskel found out, he’d put Lambert on his horse and send him packing down the trail faster than a Novigrad whore could drop her knickers. “Haven’t you heard? Madame sorceress has requested I fortify the phylactery with power from the Circle of Elements. Say it’s essential to lifting the curse from that monstrosity of yours.”

“Don’t sound too thrilled about this.” Geralt murmured. He knew why, and as such decided to _not_ pick Lambert up on his reference to Ciri. There was something eating at him; he wasn’t really making eye contact, and his dismissive tone hadn’t reared its head in at least two years.

“I’m not. You know the trek to the Circle’s no walk in the park. In more ways than one.”

“Let me go with you.”

Lambert huffed, steadied a bubbling flask, and rose to his feet. “Well, might have more spring in my step with the famous White Wolf at my side. So, ready?”

“No reason to wait. Let’s go.”

“Oh, meant to tell you,” Lambert shouldered his swords and tightened the belts at his chest. “Can’t get to the Circle through the mountains. Rockslide blocked the pass last spring.”

“So, we approach from the pond side. Like when we did the Trial of the Medallion?”

Lambert nodded. “Exactly. Remember the way?”

“Not easily forgotten, that.” They headed off on foot out of one of the many holes in Kaer Morhen’s fortifications. It seemed like no sooner had they patched one yawning gap did another crumble away. Maintaining the castle was a constant battle of them against the elements and the ravages of time.

“He who returns with his medallion will prove himself worthy and may set off on the Path.” Lambert brayed in his officious impersonation.

“Vesemir ever hear you impersonate him?”

“Yeah,” Lambert smirked. They all _loved it,_ well, except - “old man can’t stand it.”

They continued to chat idly as they walked down the paths to the side of the lake. They ran into a small cluster of harpies that had wandered down from their cave system in the mountains, and then an ugly Water Hag guarding the moorings at the lake edge. Lambert huffed a sigh as he wiped the edge of his blade clean. “All right. Cave entrance is just opposite. See it? Gotta’ sail across the pound, go through the cave, climb Troll’s Head and we’re there.”

Made it sound so simple. Like hundreds of boys _hadn’t_ died doing the exact same thing. “Doesn’t seem like such an ordeal now, does it?” Geralt murmured.

“No, still gives me shivers, though. You know only two boys returned from my group?” 

“You were the ones who ran into Old Speartip in the caverns, right?”

“Mmhm.” Lambert didn’t look at Geralt. He felt the burning in the back of his eyes. It was simmering so close to the surface _all the time_ , and he was worried that, should any of them look too closely, they’d see the truth of what he was going through. They climbed into the boat and Lambert waved Geralt away from the tiller - it was his fucking boat after all - and they settled into the hull. Lambert untied the moorings and pushed them off into the lake.

“That still gnawing at you?” Geralt broke the silence, because the distant expression on Lambert’s face was worrying him.

“Gnawing? No. Straight up pisses me off. What the fuck was that Trial for? Most who returned from the Circle of Elements died within a year in some swamp, hunting drowners for a crown thirty a head. So exactly what was the point?” Lambert bit it out, barely able to temper the rage flaring from the pit of his stomach. Knowing his life was near its end was making all of the old injustices feel all the more raw.

“Oughta ask Vesemir.”

“Oh, I have, many times. Believe you me.” Lambert grumbled and they fell silent. 

But Geralt couldn’t let it go. He leaned back against the side of the boat and studied Lambert’s face closely. The other either didn’t notice, or pretended not to, because his sunstone coloured eyes were focused on the far shoreline. Geralt shifted his feet in the bottom of the boat and raised a brow at the water that sloshed around his ankles. “Make this boat yourself?”

Lambert’s gaze focused on him finally. “Yeah. Something you don’t like about it?”

“Besides the water up to our ankles? Nothing.”

“Quit whining. It’ll make it across the lake.” Lambert huffed.

“Provided we don’t smash into something first. Barely see the tip of my nose. Fog’s thick as curdled milk…”

“Never took you for a poet.” Lambert murmured, trying to crush the memories of Buttercup that immediately rose to the forefront of his mind; if he thought of Buttercup, then he’d lose focus for the trail ahead.

“Oh, but I am one,” Geralt kicked his legs out, arms sparling along the edge of the boat. “Want to hear a limerick?”

“Sure.”

“Lambert, Lambert,” Geralt cocked his head to the side, eyes dropping. “What a prick.”

“Never hear you complain when it’s halfway down your throat,” Lambert smirked.

“Now, now, don’t get arrogant, little wolf.”

They sailed the rest of the short distance in silence. Lambert lashed the mooring ropes to the trunk of a large tree and the mud swallowed their boots until they reached the main path in the lead up to a cavern. The foglets tried to tempt them away, but both of them knew the Valley was uninhabited but for those that resided in the keep. It wouldn’t be the first time that the mists had tried to lure Witchers off the Path. They’d drawn Eskel to Geralt all those years ago, but there was no one to rescue this time. As they stood before the huge cave mouth, Lambert placed his hands on his hips and took a deep breath, “Ready for the caverns?”

“Almost, before we go inside - .”

Lambert growled. “Urgh, drink a dose of Cat, I know. Any more words of wisdom? Like ‘step softly or you’ll wake Old Speartip?’”

Geralt’s brow furrowed in concern. “Sheesh. You’re pricklier than Yen.”

Hackles up, arms folded. Defensive. “Hmm. Don’t fall in love with me.” 

Geralt's concern melted into a small smile; golden eyes bright, edged in crinkles, lips perked upwards. “Bit late for that don’t you think?”

And Lambert didn’t know what to say to that. His arms loosened and his face slackened from its angry scowl. He glanced at Geralt standing at his left and swallowed audibly. Like he was trying to press something deeper into his chest. Rather than comment any further, he snagged two potion vials from his belt and passed one across to Geralt. “Let’s go.”

The caverns were as dark and dingy as they both remembered. A number of rockslides and small earthquakes over the years had altered the path somewhat, and Geralt let off several powerful Aards to clear the way. Unfortunately, this disturbed Speartip as he was waiting for them in his main cavern. For young Witchers about to set out on the Path, his ire would’ve been fatal. Voltehre had fallen to his first swing. Lambert watched it happen. His small body disintegrating between the ogre’s club, his scarred chin quivering, his eyes wide in terror. So when Geralt landed the fatal blow and the ogre crumpled to the floor Lambert’s smirk of triumph was feral, and he stepped up to spit on the corpse. “That’s for Voltehre, you whoreson.”

The cavern stopped abruptly and they stepped out into the dim autumn sunlight. The final part of the trail sat in a valley between step cliff faces, usually adorned with groups of trolls, either snoozing, squabbling or keeping a weathered eye for more victims to swindle. Lambert managed to wind them up when they blocked their path, threatening to grind them to gravel, and as a result their friends hurled man-sized lumps of rock. A mad sprint later, and a little bit of negotiation with the trolls they met shortly before the Circle of Elements. Lambert was unhappy handing over his swords, but Geralt wanted to get by without bloodshed. When they finally crested the ritual space, Geralt heaved a deep breath. “Well, we made it.”

“No denying that. Damn… beautiful view.”

“Must be if you noticed it.” Geralt smirked. Lambert was a great admirer of beauty, but it had to be truly staggering. Like Eskel and Jaskier.

“Geralt, who do you take me for?” Lambert threw his hands up.

“Sourpuss.”

“Hah. Fair enough, but save the rest of your compliments for later,” Lambert offered a wink, and then pulled out the phylactery. “Let’s get to work.”

It’d been many years since either of them had activated their medallions, but after a little bit of trial and error they managed to light the torches in the correct order. Lambert perched himself on the edge of the crumbling wall to catch a breather, and Geralt folded his arms, gazing out across the expanse of Morhen Valley. It was truly majestic. The high conifer trees wreathed in mist, with the taller Blue Mountains looming in the background.

“So, how’d you deal with the trolls when you passed the Trial of the Medallion?” Lambert piped up.

“Hmm, let me think, oh yeah. Used Axii. But I only had to get past one troll. Other two were busy.”

Lambert hummed. “Yeah, useful sign, Axii. Saved my life a short while ago.”

“Sense a good story coming.” Geralt folded his arms, head tilted, and quirked his eyebrows expectantly.

“One of the best. A couple of road robbers stopped me. One pointed a crossbow at me and the other started rummaging through my satchel. Made the man with the crossbow shoot his friend, then hang himself.” Lambert knew he was _inviting_ a lecture, but that was what he wanted. It was easier to snap and be angry rather than face what was welling up in the pit of his stomach. Up here, sitting with Geralt, it was becoming… _difficult._ The view of Morhen Valley stretching out before him, a view that he’d gazed over for many decades from the top of the keep, was just… _too much._

“Didn’t have to kill them.”

“But I could, so I did. Two whoresons less in the world. Big deal.” Lambert waved his hand dismissively. _Fuck,_ if Geralt only knew half of what he got up to on the Path; what he’d done for Buttercup, what he regularly did at the side of his favourite feline.

“Tell me,” Geralt sighed. “You always such a cynical bastard?”

“No. I was adorable before Vesemir brought me to Kaer Morhen.” Shaking, terrified, angry. Gardis had dropped him off at the bottom of the Blue Mountains and then continued on the Path for the season. It was on the back of Vesemir’s horse that Lambert had arrived in the courtyard and started his new life.

“Think it’s that bad being a Witcher?”

“Guess I could’ve been something worse,” Lambert mumbled. “Just a shame I had no choice.”

“It was our destiny.”

It was the _worst_ thing Geralt could’ve said. If it’d been Eskel standing at his side now, then the conversation would have continued at a gentle cadence, exchanging a few jokes, perhaps they might’ve even got a little intimate, but Geralt provided Lambert with what he actually needed in that moment. An opportunity to vent. “Destiny?” He spat. “Let me tell you about destiny. My dad was a drunk. He’d knock a few back, then beat me and Mom bloody. We prayed for his death, every night. One day our prayers were almost answered. Dad lost his way coming home from the tavern, walked smack into a nest of nekkers, but some Witcher saved him. Know what he wanted in return? ‘Give me the first thing you see when you get home’. My life. For the life of that prick! I say _fuck_ that kinda’ destiny.”

 _Fuck_ the kind of destiny that gave him a child. _Fuck_ the kind of destiny that gave him Buttercup, and Eskel, and Geralt. _Fuck_ the kind of destiny that made him happy, and whole. _And then took it all away from him._ Destiny could suck his sweaty dick and take a running leap off of Kaer Morhen. Telling Lambert _anything_ was _destiny_ right now was like holding a red rag to a bull.

Geralt sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he reached across to pick up the phylactery. “Know what, let’s get out of here.”

“Don’t like what you’re hearing, huh?” Lambert snarled. “Witchers shouldn’t talk like that. Know what else you won’t like? After the Trial of the Medallion and the Mountain, I rode straight home. To thank my daddy for everything. Wanna hear what I did to him?” Because _round one_ had been glorious, and bloody, and _just._

“Lambert, please.” Geralt sighed, weary. Whatever was _actually_ eating Lambert had now been buried beneath an avalanche of bitterness; it would take Eskel to pry it free of him.

“Thought we were opening up, having an honest talk. But fine, let’s continue pretending everything’s just peachy. The road beckons, my good man! Our companions await!”

They retrieved their swords from the trolls and traipsed back to the Keep. Lambert tried to latch onto the indignant anger that had made him feel briefly strong - _vindicated_ \- at the Circle of Elements, but as he climbed back into the boat and met Geralt’s eyes, he realised he was fooling no one. Now that Geralt knew what it was like in Lambert’s soft centre, he knew what it looked like when the prickles were being thrown up in self defence. Something was very wrong.

***

Geralt’s next task is to help Eskel with the forktail ingredients. An opportunity to hunt at his lover’s side was not something he could easily pass up. He left the fortress and headed north, following Eskel’s tracks into the denser woodland. He found Scorpion first, acknowledging the stallion’s beauty begrudgingly; together with Roach, he’d produced a lovely foal. Dandelion was most beloved by their troubadour. The tracks and hoof prints petered out, but he knew how Eskel hunted forktails. He’d have a goat. So Geralt followed his nose and the tracks until he found the goat tethered in the centre of the clearing.

“Supposed to be forktail bait,” a deep voice whispered. “Guess it works on Witchers too.”

Geralt turned and immediately fell into the open arms waiting for him. Eskel’s scent was rich, warm and familiar; it stirred the well of happiness in his chest that blossomed out to fill him with a warm glow. “As for forktails, bait them thusly: pound a stake in the soil, bind a goat to it, then hide ye in nearto shrubbery posthaste.”

“Brother Adelbert’s bestiary, page eighty-two. Your memory’s back in full, and sharp as ever, in spite of your years.” Eskel turned his face into Geralt’s neck and pressed a gentle kiss there before drawing away. They’d spent many a warm night bundled in furs on Eskel’s bunk reading that particular volume. When their eyes grew heavy and their hearts amorous, they’d chucked it to the floor and rolled onto each other in search of affection.

Geralt remembered those nights too. “You’re as old as I am, wise guy. Don’t let the white hair fool you. Yen keeping you pretty busy?”

“Mmhm. Started shouting out orders with just one foot out the teleport. I tried to get a word in edgeways, to which she said - .”

“ - one should not interrupt a lady.” Geralt finished for him.

“Exactly,” Eskel sighed. “Times like these I’m glad this ugly mug of mine has always kept the women away.”

At this, Geralt took his chin again and guided his face back round. A warm tongue laved up one of the uneven valleys between two sensitive ridges, and Eskel shivered with pleasure in his grasp. Geralt purred, “Their fucking loss. I’ll show you just how beautiful you are tonight. Clearly you need reminding.”

“Mm. I look forward to it.” Just as Eskel reached out for him again - the desire to touch, hold and knead at Geralt too strong even out here in the open - a shriek of a forktail interrupted. “Shh! Hear that? Oh fu - incoming!” The creature swooped down from the sky and landed heavily near the goat; Eskel set upon it immediately, his decoction-laced blade cutting several deep lacerations in its side before it decided to take off again. The wounds were savage enough to drip blood sporadically as it flew overhead and they followed the trail to another clearing.

With two Witchers and a fatal injury, the forktail didn’t stand a chance. Geralt cut through the ligaments and tendons of its wings to prevent another escape attempt, and Eskel ducked beneath its lashing tail to reach the arch of its throat. They didn’t need the whole carcass, and so Eskel took his trophy knife from the back of his belt and set to work harvesting.

Geralt, knowing that Eskel preferred to be methodical in his dissection, stayed well back. “Something’s off with Lambert.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eskel replied as he cut into the forktail’s stomach in search of some glands further up. “He was desperate to make love facing each other, even though he prefers it on all fours. And then this morning he brought me breakfast in bed, and started to talk about my retirement.”

“Retirement?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. It’s… something I’ve been thinking about for a while. Jaskier planted the seed in my head, and I can’t shake it. He must’ve got Lambert on the case too.” Eskel wrapped up several organs in the hides he’d brought in his belt for the hunt, and then slowly rose to his feet. “Ever wonder whether we could have something more? Something… better?”

“Mm,” Geralt considered the open autumn sky, and then the corpse of the felled forktail. “Not sure whether I could do it. Not while there are still monsters to hunt, but… I can definitely see the attraction.” He was always happiest when he was home for the winter; curled up in Eskel’s bed with Lambert and Jaskier between them, and Vesemir’s cooking morning, noon and night. Yet here he was. Still on the Path. And Geralt knew Eskel shared the feeling of responsibility. To be Witchers was their destiny, it was their vocation; retirement meant allowing someone else to carry that burden.

“Hmm,” Eskel nodded and disappeared behind the forktail to drain out a vial full of its spinal fluid. Once he was finished, he corked it up and tucked it carefully in his pocket. “Come on, let’s go find the horses.” 

Geralt followed Eskel back up the trail. They found Roach and Scorpion nosing at each other with interest, and Geralt clicked his tongue. “Hey, none of that.”

“Irresistable,” Eskel patted Scorpion’s neck with a chuckle and then threw himself into the saddle. “Hey. What do you say to a little race? Maybe see who’s faster - Roach or Scorpion? Or, who’s the better rider.”

Geralt huffed. “Not really a challenge, ‘cause I could beat you riding a lame sow, but why not.”

“You’re a lame sow yourself. First to Kaer Morhen wins!” Eskel dug his heels into Scorpion’s flanks and the war horse surged away. Tree branches whipped across Geralt’s shoulders as he urged Roach on in pursuit; she leapt over obstacles and thundered down the path at a fair clip, but Scorpion had the head start. Eskel was a fine rider and he was in tune with his horse just as much as Geralt was in tune with Roach. Slightly breathless, Geralt drew to a stop inside the gates of Kaer Morhen, and accepted Eskel’s small gloat, “I could beat you riding a lame sow. Good one.”

“I underestimated you. Or should I say Scorpion. One fast mount.”

“And I overestimated you,” Eskel smirked as he dropped down from the saddle. “If I’d known it would be that easy, I’d have bet something on it.” His back was turned to Geralt, so he didn’t realise he’d become the focus of playful machinations until two cold hands slipped beneath his gambeson and shirt to caress his ribs. “Oi! Fuck.”

“I’m sure there’s something I could give you as a reward.”

“Hmm.” Eskel considered the rough fingertips stroking up a flurry of goosebumps across his skin, and then led Geralt into the stables. Just like they had as young men, they clambered into the hayloft amidst a furious round of nipping kisses. Geralt pushed Eskel down on his back and undid the ties on the front of his trousers enough to pull his cock free, already half hard from their playful clamber to relative privacy. He swallowed that magnificent prick to the back of his throat, groaning in awed pleasure as musk and sweat filled his senses, quickly joined by a pool of salty precome as he worked Eskel over with expert swirls of his tongue. Thick fingers grabbed at his hair and encouraged his pace, with Eskel’s panting moans harmonising with the filthy slurp of Geralt’s mouth around his sizable girth. When Eskel’s hips bucked, his cock pulsing in release, Geralt swallowed as much as he could, the rest leaking out over his lower lip and dribbling down his chin. Eskel was happy to help him clean off; they spent half an hour lapping and nipping lazily at each other, arms slung around broad shoulders and sword-rough fingers combing through mussed hair. 

***

That evening they settled down in the main hall for a drink. Yen left her megascope long enough to join them and stayed for a short while after Vesemir went to bed. It was all good-natured; Lambert talked about bandits and trolls, while Eskel regaled them with a tale about luring and killing a vampire with a drunk alchemist. Then they finally got Yen to open up about what she intended to do with Uma. Perform the first part of the Trial of the Grasses. Lambert nearly lost his rag completely. “You’ll fucking what - ?”

Eskel, just as a bewildered, blinked at Yen in alarm. “Uh, sorry, looking to turn him into a Witcher?”

The sorceress huffed. “Of course not. As I was about to say, I’ll only apply the first half of the Trial, because - .”

“- because you want to watch him suffer?” Lambert’s fingers tightened on the mug in his hands, partly to stop his shoulders from shaking, but also because he’d never hit a woman. Unless she was beating on him first, then it’d just be self defence.

“Stop interrupting or I’ll watch you suffer,” Yennefer glared at Lambert, censorious. “To restore Uma’s former appearance, we must first… hmm, how do I explain it? Imagine a lump of clay. In order to shape it, you must first moisten it or it will crumble. The Trial’s initial part does just that. It opens the body to change, so to speak. Only then can mutagens produce a Witcher.”

The silence sat on them heavily. Lambert continued to glower fire and brimstone, while Eskel just looked winded. It was Geralt who spoke first, because everyone was thinking it. “What are the chances Uma will survive?”

“Not great. But we’ve no choice.”

“Unless Vesemir can do the trick with his hemlock.” Lambert murmured.

“Might be surprised,” Eskel sipped at his drink. “Old man knows his stuff.”

The thought of performing _any_ part of the Trial again made Lambert feel sick, and it clearly had a similar impact upon the two older Witchers too. They all remembered it. The agony, the blistering pain eating away at their humanity. _Reshape_ was right, but Yennefer’s analogy of moistening clay was too gentle. It was more like being hammered into fragments by a heavy mallet wielded by a vengeful God. Once you were shattered to pieces, a cruel hand warped and rebuilt you into a monstrous visage. A Witcher.

Yen decided to head up to bed, perhaps sensing that she'd stirred a hornet’s nest of ill feeling with her plan. The very reason she’d kept it to herself, no doubt. They exchanged more stories about contracts, getting gradually drunker, and then Lambert suggested a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’, something he’ learned from a group of Scoia’teal. He learned several things that evening: Eskel had done fisstech in addition to fucking a succubus, Geralt had _also_ woken up outside wearing nothing but his knickers - Lambert woke up wearing _someone else’s_ knickers, but he didn’t mention that - and he was the only one who’d ever jumped out a lover’s window.

The cold was creeping in through all the cracks and crevices of the ancient keep, and he put off leaving the warmth of the firelight for as long as he could, but eventually nature ran its course. “Brrr, colder ‘n an ice giant’s ass in here. Gentlemen, I shall return. Gotta’ drain the dragon.”

“Eskel’s a dragon,” Geralt called after him. “You’re more a wyvern.” And then chuckled at the middle finger flicked at him over Lambert’s shoulder.

The drinking helped. Being with his family _helped._ But as Lambert stumbled outside and pissed over the side of the stone steps, he considered the star-studded sky above. Not long to go now. Not much time left. He missed Buttercup - his arms, his smile, his voice - and wanted nothing more than to curl up in Eskel’s bed beside him, preferably with Eskel and Geralt bookending them in. There would be none of that this winter. _Lambert_ wouldn’t be here for it, at least. He’d taken his last time for granted, and for the second time he felt an unwelcome dampness on his face. “Fuck.” He snarled, shook himself off and returned to the table with only one detour. He needed the bonnet. Play the class clown, make them laugh, get fucked stupid tonight with the moonshine burning through his system. _Forget._

Lambert swept back into the main hall and leapt onto the table, disturbing plates and mugs. “Hello, young ‘uns! Got your own little carnival going, eh? Alcohol, my good man, is a Witcher’s worst enemy!”

Eskel chuckled. “Where did you get that bonnet from, anyway?”

“Vesemir’s trunk!” Lambert beamed. “The height of fashion in 1112! Old man probably put it on when he went courting. Or, in the jargon of the time, ‘wooing the damsels’. Men, a Witcher’s life is not all cards and liquor. It is toil, it is labour. No gurgling babes to wean for us, nay, not for us.”

“Alright,” Eskel sighed, and then hiccuped. “One Vesemir’s enough. Take that off before you get it dirty, and pour…” They talked a little longer, draining the alchemy flasks Lambert had bought with him from the cellar, and then Eskel spoke again. “What is it with you and dressing up anyway?’

“You’re just jealous because I look so damned fucking hot all the time.” Lambert leered across the table, swaying slightly as the change of position threatened to send him teetering over the edge. “Also, that I could probably work it in _anything_ and you couldn’t.”

Geralt snickered, eyes fluttering as he glanced down into the bottom of his tankard. “Anything?” And then when Lambert gave an affirmative nod, “bet you couldn’t pull off one of Yen’s dresses. They’re _tight._ ”

“I bet,” Lambert burped into his fist, and then hiccuped. “I bet I can. _And_ , I bet I could find somethin’ to make you look good. Bit of fr-fr-,” another hiccup. “Frippery.”

“Fuck it,” Eskel downed the last of the moonshine and staggered to his feet. “If I get to see you two in a dress. This bet is totally fuckin’ worth it.”

Luckily - or unluckily - Yen was sleeping in a separate room to her belongings, and it was fairly straight forward to raid her trunks in search of suitable clothing. “Sure brought a lot of crap,” Lambert grumbled as he tossed a few random books and sashes over his shoulder. “You’d think she was movin’ in.”

Eskel chuckled, while flopping around on the floor in an attempt to squirm out of his clothes. “Sshh, you’ll scare Geralt.”

“What’ll scare Geralt?” Said Witcher barked out from behind a screen as he was attempting to wiggle his way into the clothing he’d been provided.

“Nothing, pretty boy, you keep lacing yourself up,” Lambert called, and then knocked a dress out of Eskel’s hands. “No, that’s not good for your complexion. Try this. This one. Perfect! Like it was made for you!” He spread his hands as Eskel picked up a lovely black and silver number.

“Sure, soon as I let it out a bit in the waist.” Eskel grumbled, and then left Lambert to pull on his own choices.

The whole thing was fucking stupid. It was like they were boys again, but instead of raiding Theo’s alcohol or Varin’s cheese collection, they were doing something far more fucking dangerous. Geralt stepped out first; he hadn’t managed to get the corset up around his waist and chest, so had stopped with the silky trousers; he smirked at Lambert, who’d gone for a low cut dress and a feathery hat to complement it. “Very nice, very nice.” Lambert crooned, and then turned as Eskel stepped out from behind the screen, with his broad shoulders and narrow waist and holy shit - “Damn, Eskel. You got an hourglass figure.” Breathless as yellow eyes followed the line of Eskel’s body. The dress was black, with a faint silver pattern threaded throughout and silver hemming around the top and bottom; the laced corset at the back would emphasise the muscles perked out above them and - 

“You’re just an ass. Why’re we doing this again?” Eskel staggered, almost tripping on the train of the dress.

“Hey, Geralt,” Lambert threw his arm around Geralt’s bare shoulders, still admiring the product of his toil. “Fancy a spitroast?”

“I had quite a lot to eat at dinner.” Geralt slurred, hands pressing to his stomach.

“Well, fuck, you really are just a pretty face, aren’t you?” Lambert rolled his eyes, and then staggered forward to press himself to Eskel’s front; he swept his hands down that hourglass waist and pressed moonshine-laced lips to the curve of a pec. “May I escort you to bed, milady?”

“You can,” Eskel replied, amber eyes alight with a mischievous shine. “Geralt. I have two hands. C’mere.”

They managed to stumble down from the tower and into Eskel’s room through a mixture of determination and luck. Lambert lured Eskel over to the bed while Geralt _tipped_ out a bag in search of a tin of slick; he tripped over several pieces of furniture in his eagerness to get to the bed. “Fuck, Eskel…” Because he was already on his hands and knees, wriggling his way beneath the skirts of Lambert’s dress in search of his prick, but lacking the coordination to find it without help due to all the fucking folds of material. Geralt pawed over the silk and lace of the dress as it fell over the firm globes of Eskel's ass, “No underwear. You’re a fuckin’ gift.”

A muffled, “I know,” could be heard as Eskel snuffled his way up Lambert’s thigh and then managed to poke himself in the eye once he’d got past the hundredth layer of silk and lace. Finally, _finally_ he managed to wrap his lips around his prize and Lambert groaned in bliss, flopping back into the pillows behind him. Eskel’s mouth and throat contracted as Geralt rucked his dress up and slipped his fingers inside; massaging, stretching. When he finally replaced his fingers with his cock, Eskel groaned, the grip of his throat vibrating around the head of the prick in his mouth as he shoved himself back. Even through the haze of drunkenness, the stretch sent tremors of pleasure up his spine and down his legs, toes curling in the furs and linens. He spread his knees further, mumbling and salivating around Lambert’s cock as Geralt began ploughing into him.

Lambert pawed at the skirts of his dress until they were hitched up around his waist and he could see Eskel working him over; he smoothed a thumb over Eskel’s lower lip and then cupped his chin to lift his head. His prick slipped free, the shaft resting over the right side of Eskel’s face. Lambert rutted his hips a little, smearing those iconic scars with saliva and diluted precome; Eskel lapped at what he could, drunkenly tracing the line of a prominent vein with his tongue as amber eyes rolled back. Geralt had changed his angle, he was grinding deep, Eskel’s spine curved with his ass lifted by the firm hands at his hips. “Nnfg, Geralt, yeah, _yeah._ ” 

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Eskel,” Lambert whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. And not just because his cock, swollen and red, lined up over Eskel’s face with that skilled tongue lapping hungrily at it, but because of that hazy smile, the bright, easy love in his eyes as one of his lovers fucked him higher on waves of pleasure. Impatient to have Lambert back in his mouth, Eskel lurched forward and swallowed him again, head descending until his nose nestled in the dark curls at the base of Lambert’s cock. “Oh, fuck, yeah - _yeah -_ your mouth, _fuck._ ” The slap of Geralt’s hips stuttered, and the White Wolf groaned as he emptied deep in Eskel’s ass. He flopped briefly after he drew out, before twisting and writhing until his head rested beneath Eskel’s hips, shoulders between spread thighs. Two fingers slipped into Eskel’s gaping hole, forcing a cry muffled by the cock stuffing his mouth, before he took Eskel’s head between his hips. He sucked up his shaft and then lapped at the precome spurting from his slit. He was close.

The wanton groans vibrating their way out of Eskel’s thick chest brought Lambert off, and he grabbed a fistful of Eskel’s hair to pull him off. His twitching cock coated the right side of Eskel’s face, marking him with milky strips of come. Geralt urged Eskel to rut down into his mouth, those narrow hips rocking back against the two fingers sliding in and out of his slick hole as Eskel’s thick prick shoved deep into Geralt’s mouth, breaching his throat after some encouragement. When he came, Eskel shuddered and growled, gasping at the constriction of Geralt’s throat as he swallowed the entire load. 

Eskel wasn’t given rest though, because when he folded, Lambert and Geralt threw him onto his back. Lambert lapped lazily at his scars, tasting his own come as it dripped down the grooves in his upper lip, and Geralt hitched one of his legs over his shoulders so he could tongue at his hole, sipping his own spend from the swollen bud as it fluttered and clenched. When Eskel's prick began to swell with interest again, Lambert slicked up his own ass and sunk down on him, the silky folds of his dress splayed out across the bed and fluttering as he bounced and ground in search of his release. 

Unlike their first time together when Lambert arrived, this was rough and frantic; Lambert wanted Eskel’s body to split him open, to paint his insides with come. He wanted Geralt’s teeth in his shoulder and the small crescent moons of his fingernails biting into his hips when he tore through the dress, impatient to reach Lambert’s skin. Geralt ended up sitting on Eskel’s chest, Lambert’s prick pressed against his inside his palm. Lambert’s enthusiastic, bouncing rhythm shoved him through Geralt’s fist, and he came in a fountain over the silky material of Geralt’s borrowed trousers.

By the time they were finished with him, Lambert and Geralt left Eskel a shivering wreck. They stripped the dress off of him, bundled it up and immediately chucked it on the fire, followed by their own clothes. It’d be easier to explain _burned_ dresses than two covered in come, right? Eskel bundled beneath the furs, exhausted, and Geralt propped himself on the pillows. “Lambert, bud, gotta’ tell you something.”

“Yeah?” Lambert dragged himself over onto his side, one arm slanting across Eskel’s broad chest.

“Sometimes you’re a real jackass, but I love you.”

There was that fucking _wetness_ on his face again. Lambert’s lower lip rolled into his mouth, and he bit back whatever pressure was building in his chest. “And sometimes you’re a blowhard. But damn it, I’d go to hell and back for you. C’mere, you big oaf!” Lambert rolled over Eskel, who flapped and groaned at him before simmering down again; Geralt chuckled and hugged Lambert close when he finally arrived. He pressed a kiss into his scruffy hair and squeezed him affectionately.

Geralt was too drunk, too fucked out, to notice the tears sliding down Lambert’s cheeks for several hours after.

***

Predictably, performing the first part of the Trial of Grasses was fraught. Lambert snarled and bit because he just couldn’t help it. Vesemir had held onto one of the fucking tables - a _whole_ one - because what Grandpa _didn’t_ have a basement full of torture devices, right? Yen barked her orders, had Geralt mix the potions and Eskel clean up vomit from the floor when Uma belched it over her. It didn’t work immediately, and they drifted away to allow Yen to conduct the rest of her ritual.

It took several hours of chanting and sorcery to get Uma through the worst of it. The Witchers lounged or slept nearby, and Geralt told Yen stories of ice skating with Ciri and about the time that Jaskier had bought him a _really bad_ sword to keep her going. Uma groaned and cried throughout, its deformed body writhing in agony. When it was finally time to lift the curse, Yen called for the phylactery and a flask from her bag and the Witchers leapt into action. The spell resumed and for a moment Uma’s body was completely lifeless…

_They’d failed._

And then a distant voice emanated from Uma’s inert form, and Yen began her chanting again - louder, frantic. She forced the curse into the phylactery and sealed it. In the place of Uma, a tattooed elven man lay sprawled. He groaned, weak and sickly. Avallac’h. He started with mumbling riddles, and Lambert seethed, but eventually they managed to get some useful information out of him.

Geralt left for the Isle of Mists as directed by the elven sage, and to collect some allies in preparation for the fight ahead. That left Eskel, Vesemir, Yennefer and Lambert in the keep to prepare. While Yennefer and Vesemir looked after their guest, Eskel and Lambert spent time preparing weapons in the armoury, building bombs and brewing potions. It didn’t take long for Eskel to try and talk to him. “Gonna’ tell me what’s eating you?”

“We’re about to fight the Wild Hunt, what do you think’s eating me?” Lambert murmured as he wrapped a fuse in his thirtieth bomb for that day.

“It’s something more than that,” Eskel replied. “If you’re not ready yet, that’s fine. But don’t lock me out, Lambert.” 

_I have to._ How could Lambert tell him? He couldn’t. Just couldn’t. They’d intervene and then one of them would die in his stead.

As the days went on, more and more people began to turn up at the keep. Some welcome faces - Zoltan, for one - while others were _less_ welcome. When Letho of Gulet turned up, both Eskel and Lambert took it in turns to keep him under supervision. There was something entirely uncomfortable about having the Viper fighting at your back. Vernon Roche appeared with his lieutenant, and Triss skipped through a portal to be greeted more amicably by Vesemir than Yen had, “Hello, little daughter.” The old wolf had a soft spot for this particular redhead.

When the keep was fuller than it had been in years, Geralt and Ciri finally stepped through a portal in the main hall. Vesemir immediately encircled her in a tight hug. “Welcome back, child.”

Yen smiled gently, playing with a strand of Ciri’s platinum hair. “My, you’ve grown beautiful.”

Ciri beamed. There was a certain relief alongside her tension. The sea of familiar faces before her clearly a comfort. “You’ve not changed at all. Any of you. All just like I remembered.” Her bright eyes finally settled on Lambert, and she bounded over. “I heard that I may have a cousin to meet?”

Lambert bit the inside of his cheek and sniffed. “Yeah, Cal. You’ll like him. He giggles as much as you used to.”

Ciri grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed him tight. “I can’t wait. He’s the luckiest boy in the world.”

_Right. Yeah._

***

Geralt’s motley crew of helpers were just that. Motley. Letho and Roche butted heads, Triss and Yen didn’t exactly see eye to eye, and everyone else was tense. Lambert prepared bombs, Eskel prepared weapons and potions, the sorceresses plotted how to best use their magical prowess and everyone else fortified Ciri inside Kaer Morhen.

The start of the battle wasn’t heralded by the blare of horns or pounding hooves, but by a creeping cold. Geralt stepped out into the courtyard to survey his small army when his breath suddenly clouded before his mouth. The hunt’s harbinger.

Lambert looked up from the table he was working on. “See that?” He called up to Geralt. There was no time for fear. No time to acknowledge what was about to happen. Lambert’s mind defaulted to battle mode and everything else disappeared.

“Woods! Now!”

Lambert, Geralt and Letho were the forward hunting party, and they dashed out into the trees with weapons in hand. On the rooftop, Yennefer used dual staffs to help create the magical dome stopping gale-force winds from ripping through Kaer Morhen's environs. Quickly, the sorceress expanded the dome to encompass both the castle and the entire mountain behind it. It provided Lambert, Letho and Geralt with a degree of invisibility as they skulked through the woods. They engaged the first of the wraith riders as they crossed a small stream just outside the walls; the three Witchers shattered portals with Aard, their blades hissing and fizzing on spectral forms.

Triss carpet bombed the area at odd intervals. She was delayed at one point; Geralt and Lambert were cornered by an entire swarm of Imlerith’s cronies. When the long awaited fireballs arrived, Lambert had to throw up a Quen shield and drag Geralt to safety. The flames incinerated their opponents, but they were quickly replaced. They dispatched Letho back to keep to reinforce the defences there and remained behind for a little longer, but the continuous onslaught of wraiths proved too much even for two skilled Witchers. Geralt barked, “Head back!”

Two shrill whistles summoned their horses. Lambert threw himself up into his saddle and urged is gelding on with a kick of the heels. His eyes flickered up the heavens and the splintering dome above their head, “Yennefer’s spell’s waning! Think they killed him?”

“Doubt it.”

They broke apart when they reached the keep and Lambert smacked his horse on the rump, sending it charging out of the walls into the safety of the wilds. He was on his own in the courtyard as Vesemir bellowed an instruction at Geralt across the walls to deal with the portcullis. The realisation dawned on Lambert slowly. 

_This was it._

He turned his sword around the back of his hand as he faced the detachment. They didn’t stand on ceremony and rushed him. Despite his knowledge of what was about to happen, his feet still moved through instinct; side-stepping, shuffling. He ducked beneath one errant swing and rolled away from another. His Quen shield sparked when it absorbed huge blows from soldiers at his rear, and he threw up replacements once they shattered. 

_Then it happened._

The misstep.

How? How could it happen? He wasn’t sure. A light shuffle to the right, his Quen shield shattered, fingers twisting to restore it and then he turned…

The blade sliced through Lambert’s chest. The same angle. The same lung. _It hurt so much more._

The blood bubbled up into his throat, thick and cloying. His fingers slackened around the hilt of his own sword and it clattered onto the frosted cobblestones. The wraith tilted its weapon down, slipping Lambert from its edge like a piece of skewered meat. Then they walked away, further into the keep.

_It was so fucking cold._

White Frost.

He tried to think of Buttercup. His warm smile, his bright laugh; the sound of his voice echoing through the halls of Kaer Morhen. The first time calling an angry man down from the rafters. An angry man he’d reach and help transform into someone better.

Lambert shuddered and sputtered. He could feel his own blood pooling beneath his gambeson, saturating his shirt. 

_Scared. He was so scared._

A low pitched whine freed itself from his throat, and he latched a hand across his chest as if to find the hole. The hole through which his life was leaking.

_Focus on the stars. Look at the starlight._

As the cold crept through his muscles - his very bones - he tried to map the constellations above. As Eskel had shown him.

_“When you’re scared, just look at the sky and remember we’re all looking at the same stars with you.”_

_“Fuck off, Eskel. I don’t get scared. I’m a Witcher.”_

_“Everyone gets scared, Lambert. Without fear, there’d be no such thing as courage.”_

No such thing as courage. No such thing as - 

A white, vague humanoid outline walked across his periphery and he threw his arm out for his sword. Not that it’d do any fucking good. The figure knelt down at his side and a strong arm slipped beneath his shoulders. “Ceádmil, Lambert.”

“Dh - Dha - .” With a lung collapsed, Lambert couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure what he felt as he looked up into Dhalion’s warm smile. Relief, fear, horror. It all flooded through him; a numb surge carried by the cold of his death.

The caladrius lifted a folded piece of parchment before Lambert’s eyes - very close, so that his failing vision could see it - along with a slim vial of something silver. Once the Witcher’s gaze had focused upon it, he slipped it inside his gambeson. “One soul in exchange for two. I willingly make this sacrifice.” Dhalion turned over his hand and closed his eyes; his palm swelled with a warm, golden light. “For my son.” 

“N - n - ,” Lambert kicked his heels into the dirt. _No. No._ **_No._ **But he couldn’t talk, couldn’t even breathe. A sudden warmth spread through his chest; it brought the wound into sharp contrast and he finally found enough air to cry out in pain. The sharp ache dulled quickly though, ebbing away until his entire chest felt like it was bathed in sunlight. His eyes swam back into focus and he saw Dhalion’s face warped in agony, blood dripping down over his lower lip - silvery and thick - as he worked on healing the fatal wound in Lambert’s chest. “St - stop - not - no.”

The wound must be closed. He could breathe again. Deep, shuddering breaths that inflated his chest to its full capacity. But he was still weak.

So, he could do nothing as Dhalion collapsed at his side, a deep wound blown through his chest, his blue eyes fading to a misty grey as life left him. His beautiful, alabaster skin spattered in silver and mud. With his last remaining strength, Lambert threw himself onto his side and yanked his glove free. Shaking fingers pressed to the side of Dhalion’s neck and found no pulse. 

_Two souls for one._

_Two souls for -_

_Two -_

Lambert’s eyes rolled back as he fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes:  
> 1\. Everything Yen says and does in this chapter is canon; she does and says it in the game.


	14. Something Ends, Something Begins

Ciri's scream drove them away. The moment when she thought Vesemir had been killed. It obliterated every invading wraith and sent Eredin packing. Thankfully, when Eskel crouched down by mentor, he was still breathing. The stab wound had cut deep into his side, but with some swift help from Triss, Vesemir was soon comfortable and sleeping off the worst of it in his quarters.

Then Lambert didn't show. 

He didn't gather in the main hall with the others. Wasn't out in the central courtyard and Geralt said he'd definitely ridden in with him. With their hearts in their throat, the two wolves set out in search of a body. 

When Eskel saw that familiar black gambeson from a distance, his knees almost gave in. His heart clenched in his chest, and he let out a small, pitiful noise of anguish. Small at the moment, because his mind refused to acknowledge what he was seeing. He staggered three paces, barely able to breathe, and then fell onto his knees at Lambert's back. "No, no, please." His voice broke as he begged the gods, fate, whatever the fuck was in control of this horseshit, not to have taken Lambert away from him. There was blood everywhere. Thick and coagulated. He had to be dead. "No, gods, fuck, please." There was an unknown creature too. Completely naked, sheened in silver and caked in mud; Eskel would deal with that later.

He'd carried so many of the wolves of Kaer Morhen to their funeral pyres. Every instructor. Nearly forty students. But he wouldn't be able to carry Lambert, even now his body was failing under the weight of building grief. "I'm sorry. I should've been here," Eskel sobbed as he fell onto his rear and hauled Lambert's inert body into his lap. So overwhelmed by the scent of blood, the pain of his own injuries, after being slapped around by the navigator, and exhaustion, Eskel didn't realise the man in his arms was breathing. "Lambert, I'm sorry." He scooped that scruffy head into the crook of his arm and kissed his lover for what he believed to be the final time.

Except -

Lambert’s lips were warm. A short breath fluttered over his own. "Lambert?" Eskel croaked, and then ripped open the fastenings of his gambeson to slide a palm beneath. A heartbeat. Skin clutching to a fragile heat threatened by the lingering chill of the Wild Hunt.

"Mmm," Lambert hummed. "Only the most dashing rogues… get a kiss from the prettiest princess." His lips quirked up in an exhausted smile.

"You f - I thought you were - oh my fucking gods -," Eskel bound Lambert up in a chest crushing hug, and only loosened when his captive groaned a plea for clemency. "I thought - you weren't moving - ."

"Was hoping for a kiss, fairytale endin’, y’know," Lambert coughed. In truth, it'd been the warmth of Eskel's mouth that had stirred him from unconsciousness. "If it was Geralt, I was gonna pretend to be dead."

"You're a fucking ass hole." Eskel laughed; it was watery and somewhat hysterical, and he buried his face in Lambert's neck. Covered in blood, dirt and sweat, but warm and _alive._ Deep, shuddering breaths swamped Eskel’s senses until he was dizzy with it. Once his heart had settled, and he had Lambert propped against his chest, he looked to the body next to them. "Who - ?"

"Dhalion," Lambert croaked, head tilted to Eskel's shoulder. "Cal's father. He saved my life."

“How did he know you were here?”

Lambert sighed. “He knew I was going to die. Told me.”

“Hang on,” Eskel gripped Lambert a little tighter. “He _told_ you? When?”

“Week ago, maybe. Eskel, it’s fucking cold out here. Help me up.”

With a little bit of groaning and flapping, they both stumbled to their feet. Lambert straight up refused to leave Dhalion’s body, so Eskel carried it for him while he limped along beside, one hand clasped to his chest. When they reached the main hall, Geralt left his seat and immediately hauled Lambert into a tight embrace.

“Fuck, little wolf, I thought we’d lost you,” he breathed, big arms squeezing as if to make sure the form in his arms was solid.

“Urgh, easy, feeling a bit delicate,” Lambert managed to pull himself free, only to fall immediately into Ciri’s embrace next. _Sheesh_ , everyone wanted a piece of the Lamb today. He patted her on the back, glad to see her safe and well, and then smirked when he turned to face Letho. “Fuck, if you hug me, I’ll know I’ve died and gone to hell.”

“And dirty up my shirt? Nah.” The Viper dismissed him with a jut of the chin but pressed a tankard of ale into his hand in passing.

The rest of the night was sombre. The arrival of the Wild Hunt had darkened the skies, and once the wraiths disappeared, the sun had only just been setting. Eskel wrapped Dhalion’s body in hemp sacks to preserve his dignity, but Lambert insisted he needed a proper burial.

“It needs to be a pyre,” he murmured, gazing towards the piles of lumber sitting against the edge of the keep in the courtyard. “He deserves… something.” It was the only honourable send-off Lambert knew. How did caladrius bury their dead? None of the books gave any information. Eskel created the pyre anyway, and the Viper helped. It was honouring the dead; even Letho knew the importance of that. But it was Lambert that carefully unwrapped Dhalion’s upper body, cleaned his face and then carried him onto the stack of timber.

Others that had fought gathered nearby - Triss, Yen, Zoltan, a few more that Lambert didn’t know and didn’t care about - and Geralt passed him the torch. The Witcher gazed at the peaceful, elven face before him and felt a harsh knot well in his throat. Cal would never know his biological father. Never hold his hand. Never hear him coo or tweet at him. And then there were all the souls that Dhalion could’ve saved in the future. Gone. The last of his kind. “I’ll never forget your sacrifice.” He croaked as he finally lowered the flame onto the kindling. The fire roared to life quickly, and he stepped back to join the others.

Lambert could hear vague voices in the background; Geralt’s allies and their plans to head back to civilisation, a small disagreement between Yennefer and the elven sage, but he didn’t look away. He watched the flames consume Dhalion. Even though their time together was brief and somewhat fraught, Lambert knew the caladrius to be one of the finest souls he’d ever known.

***

It was as Lambert was undressing - slow, aching - that the rustle of parchment reminded him of Dhalion’s second gift. As he shrugged his gambeson from his shoulders, the small vial fell loose against his chest, and he only just managed to catch it before it fell to the floor. “Hmm.”

“What’s up? Need some help?” Eskel was at his back instantly, big hands guiding the weight of his gambeson down his arms; he was already shirtless and waiting for Geralt or Lambert to rub some salve into the bruises on his shoulders and ribs. Their years under Jaskier’s care had taught them they needn’t suffer even for an evening while their wounds healed. 

“I -,” Lambert fell into one of the deep chairs next to the fire and slung a leg over the arm as he peered at the vial with interest. “Lucky almost smashed on the floor.” He placed it carefully beneath his thigh before unwrapping the letter. Geralt looked up from where he was folding clean clothes into his pack, and Eskel wandered over to read over Lambert’s shoulder.

* * *

Lambert -

I find this letter more difficult to write than the first one I sent requesting that you collect my son. If you’re reading it, that means I’m no longer of this world, and I wish to request that you do not carry the burden of my death. I believed this to be the only way for me to ensure my son has a bright future…

* * *

“Lambert, you alright?” Eskel stroked a hand through Lambert’s hair, taking his time to allow each strand to fall through his fingers as the tips brushed across his scalp.

“Yeah, s’fine. Been a long day.” Lambert swallowed the choke in his voice and continued reading, pretending that his nose wasn’t suddenly bunged or his eyes stinging, _no sir._

* * *

...with a loving family. I have always been a great believer in destiny and the natural order. Destiny must be adhered to; death must always exact its price. However, on this occasion, I felt that both had got it wrong. There is also another injustice I wish to correct. The vial I have provided contains a substantial measure of my blood. This is for your bard. He told me that he has twenty years left at most. He deserves longer with his family. You may have already learned this from other sources, but my blood contains specific properties that can extend life. It was for this reason that I was imprisoned in the mage’s workshop when we first met.

The dosage I have provided will give Jaskier another two hundred years. This figure is approximate as, understandably, it is not something I have experimented with. Blood magic is not an exact science. It will also repair some of the ravages of age. However, as with all things, this tincture comes with a price. The process is gruelling. Not unlike your Trial of the Grasses. Jaskier will be broken down and reshaped. He must sing to Caladrius before the procedure. They should be left alone for this, and Caladrius should fall asleep. There is a small risk that Jaskier may not survive. Please do not make this choice lightly. Ensure he is healthy, fed and well-rested.

I have provided mixing instructions overleaf.

Ayd f'haeil moen Hirjeth taenverde, Lambert.

Dhalion

* * *

“Two hundred years,” Eskel murmured. He finished reading first because Lambert’s eyes were suddenly _very_ fucking blurry for some _bullshit_ reason. The last few weeks had been… rough. “This… I’ll need to do some more reading.” 

Geralt padded over now, arms wrapping about Eskel’s waist as his chin settled on his shoulder, and read the note quickly. “Fuck,” he breathed, head tilting down so that his lips could press to Eskel’s skin before he drew away. “We should talk about this when he’s with us. No point running ourselves in circles now.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Eskel took the vial from Lambert as he passed it up, and tilted it into the moonlight for a closer look. “If it works, if it’s a possibility, I - .”

“Eskel,” Geralt rumbled; a gentle chiding. “Come to bed. Let me see the bruises. You too, little wolf. We need to talk.”

“We need to talk? At the Circle of Elements you didn’t want to,” Lambert grumbled, but slipped from the armchair anyway and ambled the few strides into Eskel’s bed. He took his time to savour the moment. His hands outstretched to sweep across the furs permeated with the scents of his lovers; men he thought he’d never get to touch, kiss or talk to again. Both stood back and watched, because Eskel had told Geralt about the stilted conversation in the courtyard, and they _both_ wanted to simultaneously beat the crap out of him and kiss every inch of his skin. When Geralt reflected on such a dichotomy of emotion, he realised he’d _always_ felt that way about Lambert. It had taken a bard with a staggering - read: _normal_ \- level of emotional intelligence to point it out.

Lambert stretched on the furs, clearly lost in the moment of reclaiming the place he’d resigned to losing forever. Once he’d turned and writhed a bit, he lifted his head and stared at the two watching him. “What?”

“So, you were just going to die quietly, were you?” Geralt crawled onto one side of the bed, while Eskel hemmed Lambert in on the other. “Not like you at all, little wolf.”

“Uh -,” Lambert rolled onto his back and glanced between the two fucking _predators_ eyeing him up like a prime beef cut. “Look, it - you two are fuckin’ martyrs. If I’d told you, it’d have been all ‘hero’ this and ‘save yourself’ that. And - .”

“We could’ve talked about it,” Eskel grumbled, loosening his belt. “Lambert, I thought you were fucking dead. My heart stopped, my - .”

“No,” Lambert bit out and then placed a palm over Eskel’s mouth when he tried to speak again. “All my life, choices have been taken away from me. I knew you’d send me back down the mountain, and then someone else would’ve died because of _me._ Fuck that. _Fuck_ that. So, you know what? I wasn’t allowed to choose how to live; I was gonna’ make sure I fucking well got to choose how to die.” _And that got taken too, but he didn’t feel so victimised if he was brutally honest._

The ‘beat the crap out of him’ element evaporated from Geralt’s mind, and he succumbed to the desire to kiss Lambert instead. While he was facing Eskel, Geralt slipped up behind him, lips pressing to the side of his neck as his hand slid across the soft hair on his chest and stomach. “Love you, little wolf.” 

What more could he say? How did Geralt vocalise the swell of heat and relief in his chest? To know that he - _they -_ could’ve lost Lambert was too much to bear. Eskel drew Lambert’s palm away from his face once he’d placed a kiss in the centre, and then pressed up against his front. Eskel and Geralt licked and nuzzled their fill, assuring themselves that destiny hadn’t snatched their little wolf away from them. Exhausted and bruised from the battle, all three fell asleep with their legs intertwined, their hands settled on a chest here, or a bicep there and their faces buried against whatever warm stretch of body was nearest.

They had a difficult journey ahead, but in the warm tranquillity of Eskel’s bed, they could forget it for just one night.

***

Avallac’h berated them for not teaching Ciri how to control her powers, citing her as a danger to herself and others. Of course, the pointy-eared bastard completely ignored the fact that she’d _saved them all_. Lambert was unconscious when Eredin froze everyone and was happy to have missed that _delight._ Thankfully, the little spitfire wasn’t having any of his bullshit and clapped back just as good as she got. The sorceresses were the last to leave and headed off to Novigrad once they’d agreed on a course of action. Just because the Wild Hunt had failed here, didn’t mean they were gone forever; Ciri was determined to finish them once and for all, which meant heading off on her own hunt once more. 

One morning it blew up. Geralt was sharpening a blade in the courtyard, Eskel and Lambert were patching up a huge hole left by the attempted invasion, and Ciri burst outside with her hands thrown up.

“Da-hah! It’s not working, don’t you see?” 

“Discouraged after a mere eight attempts? Zireael…” Avallac’h clearly tried for ‘I thought more highly of you’ but found condescending instead.

“How many times must I try?” Ciri ran her hands over her head in exasperation.

“As many times as it takes.”

“But I’m not getting anywhere.”

“We shall return to this later.” The elven sage sighed, and then headed back into the keep.

Ciri looked thoroughly put out. Geralt cast a glance across to his brothers, who’d paused in their work on the exterior wall; he put his sword to the side and approached slowly. “Didn’t make it far the first time out on the Gauntlet, either.”

“Geralt, please. Not now. By comparison, the Gauntlet was a walk in the park. But that’s not the point.”

“What is?” He folded his arms across his chest.

“Avallac’h says nothing will come of this until I stop thinking about the battle. But at the moment I find it impossible to fill my head with kittens and vanilla pudding. Tell me, how do you do it?”

“What?”

She threw her hands up again. “Always manage to pull yourself together, focus, no matter what’s happening?”

“Hmm,” Geralt flicked his head at his two brothers, and he crouched towards the ground as Ciri turned her back to gaze desolately out at the castle walls. “There’s a certain ancient method. Vesemir taught it to us, and Barmin taught it to him.”

“Will you take me into the mountains and make me drink hemlock?” She grumbled derisively. With her back turned, she didn’t realise her father and uncles were currently packing snow into their hands.

“The Skellige druids have used it for centuries…” And then Geralt struck; Ciri received a face full of snow. No sooner had she turned towards him, spluttering and gasping, did Eskel and Lambert launch in with their own barrages.

“Hey! You’ll regret that!” Ciri dived behind an empty barrel to gather some ammunition just as Lambert scrambled behind a low wall and Eskel took cover by the stairs. “No fair! Three against one.”

“I’m always on your side, Ciri!” Lambert called from his hiding place.

“Thanks, Uncle Lamb. Take Eskel; I’ll take the old man.”

Geralt launched several more compact snowballs in her direction, but she teleported out of the way. The Witcher huffed, “That’s cheating!”

“Wimp!” 

Eskel took a tactical approach and pulled himself up the steps to circumvent Lambert. Unfortunately, he was trying to outsmart a man who knew him about as well as he knew himself, so there was a face full of snow waiting for him when he arrived. Being the sore loser he was, Eskel backed Lambert beneath the stables, cast Aard and brought a small avalanche down on his head from the roof. 

The snowball fight continued for about half an hour until the four of them collapsed on their backs in the centre of the courtyard. Breathing heavily, they stared up into the greying skies with vague smiles. “You were right. That really works,” Ciri grinned. “Thanks.”

“Glad to be of service,” Geralt scooped up another handful of snow and chucked it into the air at an angle, so it spattered down into Lambert’s face; he smirked as the other spat and murmured a quiet _‘prick’_. “So, what now?”

“I’ll go see where our dearest sage is…” 

***

Ciri and Geralt left that morning. It was sudden, but Geralt paused long enough to write them a letter. He’d meet them at the Chameleon ‘when it was over’. Whatever the fuck that meant. Lambert stayed with Eskel for a few more days, because Vesemir was still sleeping a lot. Once he was awake, they convinced him to join them in Novigrad. Kaer Morhen had been badly damaged in the attack. It could take years to repair it properly, and Vesemir needed time to recover his strength. It was warmer - _safer_ \- in Novigrad, and although the journey would be somewhat uncomfortable, there’d be a soft bed for him at the end of it. 

_Just one winter, Vesemir. Kaer Morhen won’t crumble without you._

Bags packed, a few old books thrown in with his clothes for good measure, Eskel led his mentor down the Witcher trail for his first winter in civilisation for over a century. They left the ruins of Kaer Morhen - for that is what the Wild Hunt had left - in their wake. As they entered Redania, Lambert began to feel a bubbling anxiety rise in his chest. _Buttercup thought he was dead._ How would he react? Would he be angry? Would he -? 

Riding through the Hierarch Gate, Lambert’s head felt light and his mouth dry. He didn’t need to fret for long, because Buttercup had seen their approach from the tower room. Working on song lyrics and drama pieces for the cabaret was the only distraction that worked. Jaskier rushed out of the front door, shoving a patron out of the way with both hands. Eskel dismounted and caught him as his knees failed in shock. “It can’t be…” Jaskier gasped.

“Yeah, thought I’d give death a miss, and -,” Lambert didn’t get to finish, because Jaskier stroked a hand over Eskel’s cheek in greeting and then _threw_ himself into Lambert’s arms. The force was enough to knock the WItcher back into his horse, which stamped at the cobblestones impatiently. The kiss was savage. Jaskier pushed his tongue through Lambert’s lips and gripped the edges of his gambeson in shaking hands as silent tears rolled down his cheeks. When he eventually pulled away, the embroidered cuff of his doublet lifted to dab at his cheek, Lambert cleared his throat, “so, you’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Jaskier stammered. “Mad? Are you perhaps short of a _marble_? I’m - I can barely breathe - my own happiness threatens to end me, oh, Vesemir, forgive me, welcome to the Chameleon.” 

“Thanks, lad.” Vesemir smiled and scooped Jaskier into a one-armed embrace far gentler than it usually was. Sensing the emphasis on his right side, the bard placed his hands on the old wolf’s shoulders. “You’re wounded…”

“It’s healin’. Could use a stiff drink and a soft bed, if there’s either available.”

“For the wolves of Kaer Morhen, always.”

Rather than make his Witchers endure the noise of the lower tavern, he took them upstairs to his own private suite. Zoltan took the horses, and Eskel carried most of the packs upstairs in a couple of trips. Vesemir sat in a comfortable armchair by the fire and was happy to accept a sleepy, bubbling infant into his lap. Still, only once Lambert had held Cal close, placed kisses into his platinum blonde hair and received several ‘raspberry kisses’ all over his beard and nose. Cal dabbed happily at Vesemir’s moustache when it was in reach and then turned his eyes down to the book open in the old wolf’s lap.

They closed the world out behind a heavy oak door, and his Witchers settled on the bed at his side. Jaskier, naturally, demanded his explanation; he’d expected to lose a family member this week, and he wished to understand what lucky star had smiled upon him to prevent that from happening. Although he was happy to sit against Eskel’s chest, he had to have a hand on Lambert at all times. Just to convince himself he wasn’t hallucinating. This wasn’t just another hopeful dream of a grief-stricken mind. He didn’t bother to pick up a notepad and quill. Every word they said would be etched into his mind for an eternity under the heading of: ‘that time I almost lost them all’.

Eskel hadn’t spoken of his encounter with the navigator much, and Lambert listened with a clenched jaw. _How close they’d come to losing Eskel too._ News of Dhalion’s death hit Jaskier hard. Blue eyes welled up with tears, and he looked across to the sleeping babe in the crook of Vesemir’s arm. Lambert stroked the backs of his fingers down a quivering cheek. “We gave him a proper send-off, Buttercup.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did, my love. I just - one noble soul in exchange for another. It sounds fair on the surface, but it feels so very unjust,” Jaskier mopped his eyes; at some point in the next decade, he might get through one gods-damned day without losing half his body weight in tears. “There’s something else. You’re exchanging looks.”

“It wasn’t for one soul. It was for two,” Eskel shifted from his comfortable seat on the bed and retrieved the letter with its accompanying vial. They sat in silence as Jaskier read through it once, twice, three times. He turned the tube of blood over in his hands and looked pensive. Eskel touched his face gently, “Jaskier?”

“That’s quite the gift, isn’t it?” The bard whispered. “To be presented with two hundred more years. I - I didn’t mean to _ask_ it of him, I was merely lamenting my - my lack of time. Dear Melitele, I’m not sure whether to be grateful or guilty or… or whether I want to see this world in two hundred years.”

“It’s not a decision to be taken lightly, lad,” Vesemir murmured from his post by the fire. “Readin’ between the lines, lookin’ at the rest of the recipe; you’re looking at a potentially rough ride.”

“Quite,” Jaskier glanced from face to face; they would all have their own wants and desires, but wouldn’t voice them. They respected Jaskier too much to try and sway his opinion. “May I think about it?”

“Of course, Buttercup,” Lambert grabbed Jaskier around the waist and hauled him back for a tight embrace. “Take all the time you need. Now, uh -,” he glanced across at Vesemir, “old man, any chance you could do some babysitting in another room?” They would discuss it more when Geralt arrived. Sit down, fully refreshed and awake, around a large table and coach Jaskier through his decision, but for now, all they wanted to do - _all three of them -_ was to curl around and hold each other.

Vesemir sighed, long-suffering, and slowly pushed himself up to his feet. “Across the hall, am I?” He raised an eyebrow at Jaskier, who gave a sheepish little nod of the head. The door clicked shut softly at his back, and Jaskier pulled his two Witchers close. 

He wasn’t sure where one of them started, and the other ended; warm hands, firm chests and eager lips covered him in relentless worship, his clothes stripped away and left strewn around the room. They lacked the coordination to find oil or a position or _anything._ It was a desperate scramble to be pressed close, to scent, to touch and to taste. As the sunset outside, Jaskier finally felt the vice around his heart relinquish. It beat proudly and freely for the first time in weeks, and he thanked whatever gods were listening that he had his family with him.

_Well, just missing one vital component._

Geralt and Ciri arrived three days later. Jaskier swept them both into a tight embrace, but Ciri wiggled free in favour of scooping up Cal and swinging him around with elated glee. In her excitement, she accidentally teleported several times across the courtyard - to Lambert’s horror - but Cal only giggled and cooed each time. She’d decided she would take up her mantle as Empress; she believed that she could do the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people from that position. Proud and supportive of her decision, and the dutiful woman she’d become, Geralt would ride with her to Nilfgaard in a few days. But for now, she could enjoy being _Ciri_ for a little while longer.

As Jaskier watched his family embrace and kiss in relief, he thought back to the letter, to the _vial_ , and realised that there was really only one choice he could make.

“Hey, Buttercup. Where’s the dwarven stout I ordered before I left?”

Jaskier grinned and headed into the Chameleon to dispatch Zoltan down to the cellars.

They had lost friends to toast and new beginnings to celebrate.

* * *

_"Conquer with courage, not strength, Lambert."_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all!
> 
> For Part 6, we're going to melt some Hearts of Stone...


	15. I Live On In You [Artwork - SFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beautiful piece of fanart gifted by the lovely Volmorta (Vol for short). Go and give them some love on [Tumblr](https://volmorta.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Volmorta).
> 
> My favourite part of the whole piece has to be the colour of Lambert's eyes; they're blue like Dhalion's. With Dhalion in the background, the symbolism blows my mind.


End file.
